


By Some Unseen Light

by melo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Future Fic, M/M, Missing Persons, Mystery, POV Outsider, Post Season/Series 05, Recreational Drug Use, Teenagers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-29
Updated: 2013-01-28
Packaged: 2017-11-27 09:29:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/660385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melo/pseuds/melo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Theo's just a delinquent teen laying down new roots in Lawrence, Kansas, and he quickly finds himself in trouble with the man rumoured to be a murderer, Dean Plant. Theo spends the summer helping to fix the property he damaged and seeing a side of the man hidden from public view. Yet the more Theo learns, the less he understands about Dean, himself, and his family. And all the while teens are going missing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ.
> 
> Special thanks to insight2 (on LJ) for being a beautiful shoulder to cry on as this fic brutally murdered me. Without all her amazing support and feedback (and her patience with my lack of writing process and coherency), this fic would never have seen the light of day and I would still be bawling in the corner, never to write again.

Theo’s life is fantastic.  
  
He’s been in Lawrence for a little over four months and already he has amazing friends with amazing talents.  
  
Theo had never seen anyone run as fast as Evan and Jake, but last night had proven them to be the greatest sprinters of their age.  
  
In five seconds flat, the two teens had hit the ground and raced halfway through the fields, and at the time Theo hadn’t understood. He probably should have, considering they’d just taken a tractor for a joyride and crashed it into a shed, but something more clear than dinner plate eyes and a horrified chorus of ‘Plant!’ would’ve been nice.  
  
Instead, Theo had been met with a shotgun to the face and a low growl more chilling than any beast’s, “What the fuck, kid?”  
  
Theo has similar words for Evan and Jake, but he’ll have to save them for later when he’s not being pulled by his mother, her fingers like claws digging into his shoulder as she leads him up the long dirt drive, apparently not caring that she’s about to deliver her only child into the arms of death.  
  
“Well, I hope you’re proud of yourself, Theodore Lucas Loflin. Not even half a year and already you’re in trouble,” she says, tone as clipped as the click of her sensible heels over hard baked earth.  
  
“I just–”  
  
“Nope,” his mother cuts him off, trying to stare him down though he’s much taller than her, “No excuses. Don’t you go telling me you got ‘talked into it’ or that you thought the tractor belonged to one of the other boys – who you still have to name, by the way–” she shoots him a disapproving look. “You were drunk, you were out when you weren’t supposed to be out, and now you’re going to clean up your mess.”  
  
They come to the wall of ugly trees that encircle the main house, a chain link fence twisted in with the growth. Theo thinks the fence is pretty useless since the dying trees should be enough to hide the building and keep people away, but he can’t help hoping that the rusty looking clamp on the gate is stuck shut. His mother might be determined to see this through, but she can’t be willing to vault the fence in her pencil skirt.  
  
Unfortunately for him, the clamp opens easily, and Theo is unsurprised to hear the hinges scream as the gate swings open.  
  
His mother drags him onwards and up the sunken steps of a picture perfect haunted house. She stops before the front door, taking a moment to sigh; she licks her thumb and wipes at Theo’s cheek, holding him in place so he can’t escape her damp fingers, “I just don’t get it, Theo. Why do you have to be like this?”  
  
Theo doesn’t bother replying and neither does he meet his mother’s disappointed brown eyes, instead looking up at the old house and listening for the expected screech of bats or crows, maybe the wail of a banshee.  
  
His mother purses her lips; takes a breath to continue chewing him out, but before she can, the heavy front door opens to reveal Theo’s executioner.  
  
Plant looms in the doorway as if daring any of the weak sunlight that makes it through the trees to try entering his house. His mouth is set in a grim frown, eyes narrowing as he takes in the two barely tolerated visitors standing on his porch.  
  
His mother doesn’t seem to notice any hostility, instead launching straight into a polite greeting, “Good afternoon, Mr. Plant. I’m Melissa Loflin. We talked not too long ago over the phone.” She sticks her hand out for a handshake, but Plant’s hands remain hidden in the sleeves of his large flannel shirt. It only takes a few seconds of Plant staring flatly at her well manicured nails for her to get the hint, and she drops her hand awkwardly.  
  
“Yeah, good afternoon,” Plant nods, an uncomfortable looking tilt to his lips – what might be his version of a polite smile. Then he turns his attention to Theo. “So, kid,” Plant says, though it sounds more like a snarl to Theo’s ears, “Ready to break your back?”  
  
Theo glances sideways at his mother, praying she hears the threatening promise in those words that he hears.  
  
“Theo will help in any way he can. It’s the least he can do. We really appreciate you not pressing charges,” his mother shakes her head. “Again, I’m really sorry for all this.”  
  
“S’alright, Mrs. Loflin, you’re not the one that should be apologizing,” Plant turns a steely glare on Theo and though he’ll never admit it, he’s pretty sure his skin paradoxically frosts under molten green eyes. “It’s your boy that should be sayin’ sorry.”  
  
Theo can tell his mother’s holding back from nudging him with an elbow, but Theo doesn’t say a thing. He’d like to stare defiantly at Plant, too, but his eyes can’t help darting away from the green that starts to burn across his vision like an acidic fade-to-black.  
  
Plant grunts, “Well you’ll be workin’ your ass off for this.”  
  
“Of course he will. The whole summer if he has to,” his mother agrees eagerly, glad that the incident can be swept under the rug with just a little of her son’s sweat and blood. Then she turns to him, scowling, “Bye, now, Theo. You be good for once, and I’ll be back to pick you up at six.”  
  
Then she’s striding off the porch, her bobbed hair bouncing with each of her quick steps, leaving Theo alone with the creep that he’s been told is a crazy axe murderer.  
  
Plant knocks at his shin with his cane, frown deepening, “Aren’t you going to say goodbye to her?”  
  
“No,” Theo answers flatly, holding in a sigh.  
  
Plant rolls his eyes, his low opinion of kids these days obviously dropping down another notch as they watch her go – and Theo tells himself he’s imagining the appreciative look Plant gives his mother’s backside – before Plant turns to Theo, motioning with his cane for Theo to get inside.  
  
Theo reluctantly steps into the darkness past the doorway, trying not to think of how ominous the door sounds as it clicks heavily shut behind them, sealing him in the old house, miles away from anyone – too far to run for help; too far to be heard if he screams.  
  
Theo fists his hands at his sides, fighting back his paranoia and trying not to think of all those horror movies he’s seen but was never bothered by.  
  
Plant can’t  _really_  be an axe murderer – or if he ever was, he’s certainly no good at it now. Not when he’s got a limp and a cane, although Theo can’t explain how Plant had appeared so quickly last night. The shed was at the Southwest corner of his land, but it was as if he’d been sitting out in the bushes, waiting for some hooligans to decimate his property.  
  
“Kid, you got a bike?”  
  
“What?” Theo tears his eyes from the mask that may or may not be made of human skin hanging on the wall.  
  
He’d thought that maybe the house only looked spooky because it was poorly maintained, but Plant’s possessions – the tribal masks, animal skulls, black candles, and creepy knick knacks – lying all over the place in dusty heaps don’t take away from the electricity that’s been shivering up and down Theo’s spine since he stepped foot on the land.  
  
“I asked if you have a bike,” Plant whaps his cane against the back of Theo’s knees, getting him to shuffle faster down the narrow front hall to the kitchen.  
  
“Uh, yes. Yes, I do.”  
  
“Good, ‘cause you’ll be ridin’ it every morning and every evening for the rest of this summer. Don’t want to bother your mom with giving you lifts.”  
  
“What?” Theo’s voice barely rises in volume, but it still cracks embarrassingly, “But I live at least ten miles from here.”  
  
“Well, those ten miles didn’t stop you from driving a tractor into my shed, so they shouldn’t stop you from biking up here at the ass crack of dawn,” Plant pushes Theo into one of three mismatched chairs at the kitchen table. “If anything, you should be lickin’ my boots for this. You brats picked the wrong man to jack a tractor from, so just be glad Jefferson owed me a favour, else you’d be lying in a ditch right now.”  
  
Theo isn’t sure he won’t be lying in a ditch when Plant’s done with him, so he sits mutely at the table, watching as Plant hobbles around his kitchen, bringing two chipped mugs down from a shelf. He’s not usually so intimidated by anyone – not even the hulking gym teacher with the bulging veins and metal plate in his skull – but he can’t help flinching with every clack of a cabinet door closing and every thump of Plant’s cane. There’s a cold sweat beading on the back of his neck and his eyes skittishly follow the man, expecting Plant to be holding a cleaver the next time he turns around, instead of the jug of orange juice that he takes out from the yellowed fridge.  
  
It’s surreal, watching Plant. The man can’t be more than an inch taller than Theo but he somehow towers over him – eyes sparked flint; light brown hair, grizzled silver at the temples – bustling around the kitchen like – like he’s just some guy.  
  
But the mirage only lasts a minute at most.  
  
“Ground rules,” Plant says, suddenly taking a knife – which looks unlike any kitchen utensil Theo’s ever seen – out from a drawer. He waves the blade around, using it like a pointer, “Don’t go upstairs, don’t go into my basement, don’t go into my fields, don’t go into my woods, don’t even  _think_  of going  _near_  my pond or I swear I’ll–”  
  
Plant stabs the knife into the ham on his cutting board, the force of it causing the dishes on the counter to jump and clatter loudly.  
  
The worst part is Theo isn’t sure if Plant is doing this as some sort of display to show Theo who’s boss, or if Plant is genuinely that territorial.  
  
Plant then proceeds to saw his knife through the ham, peeling off several fine cuts and piling them onto toasted bread, and before Theo knows it, there’s a mug of orange juice and a sandwich being plopped onto the rickety wooden table in front of him.  
  
“Eat up, kid,” Plant says gruffly, tugging at the overly long sleeves of his shirt until they hang down over his knuckles. He leans against the counter, “Can’t have you collapsing on me before I’ve got a new shed.”  
  
Theo sits dumbly, looking between the sandwich – which admittedly, looks tasty and not poisonous – and the hard edged man staring steadily at him, eyes bright reflections of what sunlight filters through the dusty kitchen curtains.  
  
“Uh…” Theo squints, like that might help him get a grip on the situation, “Yes… Mr. Plant – sir. Thank you?”  
  
And wow, he called him ‘sir’. He doesn’t even add the ‘Mr.’ to the names of his teachers, and here he’s giving Plant both.  
  
But Theo doesn’t dwell on it, not when Plant’s face splits into a sharp almost-smile, the clouds briefly clearing from his expression and making him seem twenty years younger.  
  
“Don’t ‘sir’ me, I ain’t that old,” Plant says, “Just call me Dean.”  
  
  


 

* * *

  
  
The first week is Hell, and when Theo tells Plant – Dean – this, the man just laughs harshly and leans farther back in his lawn chair, fingers peeking out from under the too-long sleeves of yet another oversized shirt when he holds his beer in a mocking toast towards Theo. Dean seems to enjoy playing out this classic master-slave scene, even setting up an umbrella for himself and wearing sunglasses as he lazes next to Theo, supervising the teen’s clean up and construction. But somehow the most irksome part of the ordeal is that Dean seems incapable of using his name, like he can’t remember it or can’t be bothered to try pronouncing something more complex than ‘kid’.  
  
So Theo toils irritably through his back breaking work, heaving heavy planks of wood around in the hot sun. It’s especially awful after biking nearly ten miles every morning and evening as Dean had instructed and his legs burn in ways he never knew they could, muscles he wasn’t aware he had suddenly waking up in agony. Theo’s no couch potato, but he certainly isn’t a jock, and he’s starting to feel a little cheated when he gets up in the mornings, looking as stringy as ever but feeling like he should have bulging muscles.  
  
Theo can’t even slack a little bit because despite Dean’s relaxed posture and the car magazines he reads, he seems to have eagle eyes behind his shades, barking at Theo when he sorts the debris improperly – as if there is a significant difference between planks with zigzags scratched on them or planks without – or when he only measures once instead of twice before cutting – because the dimensions of the new shed just have to be _that_  exact.  
  
It doesn’t help that Theo has absolutely no skill in woodworking or any craft, having bombed every shop class or shop-like activity he ever participated in. Hence his work on the shed progresses at the pace of snails, and Theo is surprised that Dean tolerates it.  
  
Theo had thought that Dean would want him to finish fast and then get the hell off his lawn, but Dean doesn’t hurry him. Dean actually guides him through the construction process, albeit gruffly, and Dean can’t be expecting Theo to take any of the lessons to heart, but Dean gives him clear and detailed instructions, like he’s preparing Theo for future projects he might have to tackle on his own.  
  
Strangely enough, the tutorials aren’t limited to construction.  
  
“Have you mixed the garlic puree with the butter yet?” Dean asks from where he stands by the grill, brushing the steak with olive oil.  
  
“Yeah, I’m putting it on the bread now,” Theo says, smearing the mixture onto one side of each slice of French bread.  
  
“’Kay, bring that and the provolone over when you’re done.”  
  
They work together in a surprisingly well coordinated manner, Dean seeming to always be aware of Theo’s position relative to himself, so they have yet to bump into each other and soon a neat row of bread is grilling alongside Dean’s rib-eye steak, the mouth watering scent overwhelming in the best of ways. Theo will probably still smell the slight char of the meat days from now, even after laundry and a dozen showers, if only in his mind.  
  
“We’re bringing the steak to medium-rare. Then we’re going to let it sit five minutes,” Dean narrates curtly. He hands a pair of tongs over to Theo, the pink piggy oven mitts he wears ridiculously distracting.  
  
They’re hardly necessary, but Dean had pulled on the oven mitts before they began cooking and has been wearing them through the whole process – even when he’s far from any heat – but Theo doesn’t comment on it, the same way he doesn’t comment on the man’s nervous shirt-tugging habit. Instead, he takes the tongs from the jaws of the cartoon pigs and listening as Dean continues, “The bread should be golden brown; turn it over and add the cheese.”  
  
“Like this?”  
  
“Yeah. When the cheese’s melted, plate it,” Dean points his chin to the chipped dinnerware left on the side. He takes the steak off, leaving the grill to cool, “Then get to the parsley oil – remember, just half a cup of canola in there.”  
  
“Is this chopped well enough?” Theo gestures to the flat-leaf parsley on his cutting board.  
  
“It’ll do,” Dean nods, prodding at the steak with the tip of his blade, seeming to check with his internal clock – which Theo has learned is disturbingly accurate – to note that five minutes have passed before cutting into the meat, carving it into thin slices and then transferring the strips, layering them onto the cheese and bread.  
  
They spend a few minutes arranging the dishes, centering the sandwiches and drizzling them with Theo’s completed parsley oil.  
  
Then Dean lays a gloved hand on Theo’s shoulder, guiding him to step back so they can take a look at their work.  
  
And it looks amazing. The steak is moist and perfectly cooked, red but not too wet or bloody, letting the bread retain its slight crisp. The provolone is just this side of melted, oozing together to form a white bedding beneath the meat, the parsley oil pooling in the nooks between layers of tender meat and rich cheese, the leaves abstract green shapes bringing colour to the display. Everything is piled neatly on the rectangles of golden bread, the aroma a finishing dimension to the affair.  
  
“Fuck yeah,” Dean’s grin is feral, but he doesn’t seems as enthused as his words imply.  
  
It’s a little – very – bizarre, but Theo has given up trying to understand Dean’s wild mood swings and thought processes. He never placed much stock in the rumours – despite the persistent tingles of unease and the coiling of his muscles when Dean is close. If anything, the guns –  _plural_  – Dean keeps in his fridge – one in the door and one under the vegetables – should be the straw that breaks the camel’s back, or in this case, ensures that Theo bikes home and doesn’t look back, but Theo reminds himself that Dean can’t be as awful as people think.  
  
Theo’s hammered his own fingers at least twenty times and burnt himself on the grill, but it’s not all bad. For the first time in a long time, something like pride warms his chest when he sees that he’s managed to saw straight through a plank and before this, the only things he’d ever cooked – assuming microwave dinners and canned food don’t count – are eggs, sunny side up or scrambled.  
  
“Where did you learn to cook?” Theo asks curiously as he picks up a plate and follows Dean to the lawn chairs by the work-in-progress shed.  
  
“Food Network,” Dean chuckles dryly, plopping into his seat, leaning his cane against the arm and finally stripping off his oven mitts. “Ain’t nothing you can’t learn from that channel.”  
  
“Do you watch it often?” Theo bites into the mini open-faced sandwich and has to pause for a moment to keep from making embarrassing sounds as the aged provolone and steak hit his tongue.  
  
Dean doesn’t have any such reservations, chomping into his sandwich with gusto and groaning obscenely, “All the damn time.”  
  
“Don’t you... don’t you have to work?” Theo presses his lips together. He probably shouldn’t have brought up Dean’s apparent unemployment.  
  
But Dean doesn’t seem to mind, “Yeah, but my schedule’s pretty flexible and coordinating vampire hunts and conning the feds is easy as pie.”  
  
Theo stops mid-chew, tilting his head up to look at the man licking his fingers in satisfaction, “Pardon?”  
  
“I’m a freelance writer,” Dean makes a face like he’s just as surprised as Theo.  
  
“You write?”  
  
“Yup, wrote an article for a gun magazine not too long ago.” Dean speaks around a full mouth, “How ‘bout you, makin’ a career out o’ destroyin’ shit? I hear demolition ain’t a bad gig.”  
  
Theo hunches his shoulders, instantly clamming up.  
  
“What, cat got your tongue?” Dean raises an unimpressed brow, but Theo’s eyes lock onto the dead grass beneath the chairs.  
  
Maybe it’s just habit that brings his walls snapping up like they have, or maybe it was the realization that his walls had been  _down_ , but Theo doesn’t know. He’s never felt more than a few specks of guilt before – and if that doesn’t sound like the symptoms of an antisocial personality – and he can’t really say he cares about the shed even now.  
  
What does affect him is Dean.  
  
“Y’know,” Dean says, looking up at the clear sky, “You seem like a smart kid. You use big words and tie your shoes all by yourself. You understand the blueprints easily enough and you even improvised a bit and made that lever to help you shift the heavy stuff.”  
  
Theo watches as Dean’s eyes slowly fall to meet his, “Don’t waste your life like an idiot.”  
  
Holding Dean’s stare is like looking into the sun, circles of green fire burning into Theo’s retinas, but he doesn’t break away. It’s a poor illusion, but this way Theo can pretend he’s not just fumbling around in the dark, looking for – he doesn’t even know what – a hobby, a career goal, a political movement to join.  
  
Dean’s the first to look away, sighing tiredly as he glances around, searching for something, “Damnit, we didn’t bring any drinks out. Kid, fetch beer – and a juice box or something for yourself.”  
  
Theo frowns as Dean uses his cane to prod at him from where he sits, “C’mon, get to it.”  
  
And Theo obeys, actually glad for the excuse. He drops his plate and unfinished sandwich onto the seat of his lawn chair as he gets up, but he walks slowly, relishing the ability to move without a cane herding him forwards.  
  
It’s a fairly long walk back to the house, but somehow he knows solemn eyes watch him the whole way as he treads through tall weeds and dead grass, so he keeps his eyes roaming the distance, looking out at the tall trees to the Southeast, the empty space in the grass where the murky pond is, or anything else in the general direction he’s marching towards.  
  
Upon entering the house through the kitchen door, Theo notices something odd, not that any part of the house is normal. Somehow everything is dusty, aged, and mismatched. Every inch is cluttered with suspicious paraphernalia, yet Theo’s eyes don’t fixate on the satanic looking paintings that might be done in blood or the severed monkey’s paw that doesn’t look very monkey-like being used as a bookend on a shelf.  
  
From where he stands by the backdoor, Theo can look into the sitting room. He’s walked past it multiple times, but at this angle, a small photograph becomes visible, squeezed into a shadowy nook.  
  
The photograph is burnt at the edges and blackened in the middle, but it’s tucked carefully inside a frame and it’s the only thing that’s hung straight and proper on the wall.  
  
He’s never seen it before, but it tugs at him – the only photograph he’s seen in the house – so Theo goes.  
  
He walks right into the sitting room, right up to the picture frame and he can just make out the shapes of a few figures. There’s a grizzled man in a wheelchair, two women and a very tall man, none of whom Theo recognizes, of course.  
  
And then there’s Dean, looking to be in his late twenties or early thirties. He looks about the same in the photograph as today, still dressed in a similar fashion, hair still kept in a similar style. Not much has changed, right down to the grim expression darkening his face.  
  
It’s a little... sad, that Dean’s been this way for years.  
  
Theo leans closer to the photo, noticing that there’s one more person. The burnt edge cuts right through the figure, so it’s difficult, but Theo can tell it’s a man – somehow familiar – and he can just see the edge of a long coat, a skewed tie –  
  
“Drinks are normally kept in the kitchen.”  
  
Theo jumps, spinning around to find Dean right behind him.  
  
He doesn’t know how that’s possible because the floorboards creak under the slightest pressure, never mind the thump of Dean’s cane, but Theo hadn’t heard Dean approach and now the man is only a few feet away, any of the strange rapport they managed to build over the past ten days bled out, leaving his eyes cold and flat like faded tundra.  
  
Dean’s wearing his oven mitts again, but Theo can’t find anything hilarious about the situation, and all Dean does is hold out a box of apple juice, “Your sandwich is getting cold.”  
  
Theo hears danger like the click of gunmetal echoed with human teeth, so he sprints back the way he came without grabbing the juice box, the paper carton somehow sinister in Dean’s pink gloved hand. He races out into the clear sky and open grass, feeling like not even an infinite stretch of space can take away his sudden claustrophobia, the sense of drowning in the air.  
  
Today, for the first time in a long time, Theo had felt proud of himself. And today, for the first time in a long time, he feels guilty.  
  
But Dean doesn’t come back outside, not even at the end of the day, so there’s no routine goodbye from Dean or routine lack of response from Theo.  
  
And Theo is sorry, but not enough to make him brave, so he bikes away.  
  
One mile for each good day.  
  


 

* * *

  
  
“Ouch, what the fuck happened to you, man?” Evan winces, the silver hoops of his snake bites glinting as he chews at his lower lip, “You look like the walking dead.”  
  
“No thanks to you two,” Theo flops onto Evan’s bed and grouses into the mattress. It doesn’t smell particularly nice – like pot and too much Febreeze – but he doesn’t do more than turn his face to the side so he can see the blue and blonde tops of his friends’ heads over the edge of the bed.  
  
Jake is entirely absorbed in the video game, his large frame looking a little odd hunched over his controller, but Evan glances repeatedly over his shoulder at Theo, not caring that on screen, his car has crashed into a side rail and is now heading in the wrong direction.  
  
“You need anything?” Evan asks, grey eyes wide with concern, “Food? Water?... Other things?”  
  
“Thanks, but no,” Theo grunts.  
  
He feels like shit, partially due to physical exertion, but mostly because he is shit.  
  
He destroyed Dean’s property and invaded the man’s life when he obviously likes his privacy. It’s a new and unpleasant – horrible – feeling that settles in the bottom of his stomach like a stone that failed to skip across the surface of a pond.  
  
Hanging on the wall or not, it had been none of his business to look at that photo, and he hates to think of what sort of memories Dean might have attached to it. Who knows what happened to the people in that picture, the congregation of sombre figures and the burnt condition of the image not saying good things.  
  
It’s been hours, but he wonders if Dean is still standing in the sitting room, alone on the outskirts of Lawrence with no company but those faces kept safe behind glass.  
  
“We told ya to run, cupcake,” Jake shrugs, response extremely delayed. He taps madly at the ancient controller clutched in his hands, steering his car on the television screen into a hairpin turn, increasing his overwhelming lead on Evan, whose car has accidentally rolled into the pit stop.  
  
“No you didn’t.”  
  
“Well, you’re supposed to be the smart one,” Jake says distractedly, stretching his long legs out on the carpet as if to emphasize Jake’s role as the ‘athletic one’, Theo’s role as the ‘smart one’ and Evan’s role as... something.  
  
And Theo knows Jake doesn’t mean anything by it, but he still winces, recalling Dean’s words.  
  
Jake doesn’t notice Theo’s reaction, but Evan does and he jabs a skinny elbow into Jake’s side, jolting the larger boy and sending his on-screen car driving straight onto the grass.  
  
“Sorry we can’t help, dude,” Evan tosses his controller to the side and turns to talk to Theo, blue hair falling over one eye, “But we’re already in, like, nine kinds of trouble and we’ve got a bad track record, so we’d seriously be shot for getting mixed up with this too.”  
  
Jake pauses the video game, finding no fun in crushing Evan’s delusions of being a race car driver when the slighter boy isn’t paying attention. He sets his controller to the floor beside him as he turns to Theo, a teasing grin stretched wide across his tanned face, “You’re not really mad about it are you Thee-O?”  
  
“What makes you think that?” Theo asks, sitting up on the mattress to look at the curly haired teen resting muscled forearms on the edge of the bed.  
  
“Well pop-tart, even though Plant’s a hermit, you seem to get along fine and dandy with ‘im,” Jake waggles his brows.  
  
Theo looks away uncomfortably, thinking that if ever that was true it certainly isn’t anymore.  
  
Jake shrugs his broad shoulders and exchanges a glance with Evan, cuing the blue haired boy who says, “Okay, well you just be careful, huh.”  
  
“Why?” Theo’s eyes narrow.  
  
“Didn’t we already tell you his origin story?” Jake huffs.  
  
“You mean how the day he showed up, the man who used to own his property left?”  
  
“Disappeared,” Evan corrects, “Somerville was there, and then he just wasn’t.”  
  
Theo looks at the shorter boy, unimpressed, “You were four years old when that happened, and it doesn’t really mean anything. They probably arranged the sale ahead of time.”  
  
“Can’t you feel it though, when you get near him?” Jake nods seriously, “There’s a reason people avoid his place like the plague.”  
  
A chill run’s over his skin, because he can’t deny that there’s something about Dean, but Theo’s unable to stop the defensive edge that sharpens his tone, “That doesn’t make Plant a crazy axe murderer.”  
  
Jake grunts unattractively, scratching at his messy blonde curls, “Well  _somebody_  is.”  
  
“De-Plant isn’t abducting teens and locking them in his basement, Jake,” Theo’s hands fist on the edge of the mattress, “This isn’t a horror movie.”  
  
“Maybe they’re not being kept in his basement,” Jake shoots back, teeth flashing.  
  
“Guys, guys,” Evan waves his hands between them, placating, “’Kay, let’s be fair. Plant might not be the one going around kidnapping people–” Jake makes a move to interrupt, but Evan barges on, “But who can say, I mean, he’s got one big ass piece of land and he’s damn creepy in my book.”  
  
“Teens are going missing,” Theo says flatly, “These are real events, unlike those that Plant’s notoriety are built on.”  
  
“No need to get so touchy, Thee-O,” Jake tosses his head in irritation, brows lowering over dark eyes, “And what would you know ‘bout whether or not the rumours are true. You didn’t grow up with ‘em and you weren’t here the first time ‘round.”  
  
“What do you mean, ‘the first time around’,” Theo cocks his head, brows furrowing.  
  
Evan clears his throat nervously, eyes darting to Jake’s scowling face, “Uh, this isn’t the first time people have gone missing like this.”  
  
“Lawrence isn’t that small. I expect that it has its fair share of disappearances.”  
  
“Yeah, but,” Evan twists one hand about his slight wrist, “So far it’s Kyle Tattle and Mi-Michelle,” he stumbles over the name, and Theo feels a little ashamed of himself. He hadn’t been making light of the situation, but he’d forgotten that Evan is friends with one of the missing teens. Michelle and Evan aren’t the closest, but apparently they had been planning a joint birthday party, having been born on the same day.  
  
Jake seems similarly mollified, and he lays a large hand on Evan’s thin shoulder, “Sorry, man. I didn’t mean to bring this up.”  
  
“It’s okay,” Evan sighs, looking especially pale next to Jake’s tanned skin.  
  
“They’ll find her,” Theo tries to assure the shorter boy.  
  
Evan shakes his head, the dark circles under his eyes suddenly suggesting more than sleepless nights, “Not in time.”  
  
“Hey, don’t say that. It’s only been a few days, and we don’t know anything for sure,” Jake frowns, “I mean, yeah, you spent a lot of time looking into it, but you’re no professional, man.”  
  
Evan nods dully, “You’re right, but I think Theo should know about the first time this happened, just ‘cause.”  
  
“If this has happened before, wouldn’t the police have made the connection and the news stations reported it?” Theo asks.  
  
“So far, there’ve only been two, and they’re just missing,” Jake says roughly, expression darkening as he rubs a hand reassuringly up and down Evan’s slumped back, “Last time was seven years ago – four kids – one of them Evan’s cousin – found dead with some freaky shit carved into their skin.”  
  
Theo’s eyes widen, but he doesn’t know what to say to Evan. ‘I’m sorry’ won’t help, not even now that he can sincerely say it, and Evan seems to understand, waving away Theo’s concern, “It was a long time ago. People probably don’t think they’re related ‘cause, I mean, the four kids... only one was from Lawrence.”  
  
Theo purses his lips, asks lowly, “So what makes you think they’re related?”  
  
Evan shakes his head, grey eyes looking up at Theo from under his fringe of blue hair, “August, seven years ago, it was ten year old kids. This time around, it’s seventeen year olds,” he laughs nervously, face twisting fearfully, “Whoever’s doing this is hunting our generation.”


	2. Chapter 2

It rains on the Monday that marks the start of the third week and Theo can’t help the apprehension twisting his gut. He still has to go to Dean’s haunted house – biking in the rain, oh joy – and he’s fairly certain that even Dean won’t send him out to build his shack in the storm, but ever since he broke some unspoken rule, every moment at Dean’s has been a nerve wracking ordeal.  
  
It doesn’t help that he can’t stop thinking about what Evan and Jake told him, but he’s certain that Dean has nothing to do with it. The man is difficult to understand and often standoffish or downright frigid, but that could just be the way he is – or how he’s been made to be, if some of Dean’s militaristic actions can tell him anything.  
  
Theo can’t condemn the man for his eccentricities, because the ice that sneaks up his spine and the way his heart quickens when he steps onto Dean’s land – it can’t mean anything, right?  
  
But Theo doesn’t know what to do when he pulls his bike up next to the porch to find Dean standing outside, watching him.  
  
Theo has seen that Dean is more than the rumours paint him to be. He’s rough edged and grim, but he can also be that considerate sort of guy that grudgingly gives Theo lemonade and fifteen minute breaks.  
  
Then there are times like this.  
  
Theo has nothing to compare to the static prickle that rolls through his skin when Dean is like this.  
  
It’s happened twice now – when Dean had pulled something from the shed debris during the clean up and when Theo had invaded Dean’s sitting room – so if there is a time to be afraid of Dean, then it’s not when he’s got his knives laid out, but now – standing silent, gaze hooded, face unreadable – because it is like this that Theo feels something slide between his ribs when he shouldn’t feel anything at all.  
  
Blank as Dean is, there is something that reminds him of any number of programs he’s seen on television. Like a wolf ensnared in metal jaws; a jaguar, eyes dull green behind bars. Like the thousand yard stare of war veterans; the numbing cloak of death row.  
  
Something deadly, but no more.  
  
“You’re early.”  
  
Dean’s voice is soft, barely louder than the patter of rain on earth, but Theo feels the blood shrink back from his skin, leaving his already wet and cold extremities even colder – corpse cold.  
  
“I thought my trip would be prolonged by the weather,” Theo says, somehow not stuttering though his bones thrum, tuning forks singing unheard.  
  
Dean’s eyes scan Theo’s drenched frame with one quick up and down flick before he jerks his head ever so slightly back, motioning for Theo to follow him into the dark of the house.  
  
Theo has to fight the urge to bolt – towards the house or away, he’s too high strung to know – and makes a conscious effort to breathe before he trails warily after the man, holding back a wince when he notices how much water he’s dripping all over the floor.  
  
He’s so busy worrying about upsetting the thin plateau balancing him and Dean again, that it’s not until he’s standing in the dim kitchen with them that he realizes Dean has a visitor.  
  
“Who’s the kid?” the man asks, hazel eyes falling from a great height to land on Theo.  
  
The man is huge. Taller than Dean or Theo and built like a truck, broad shouldered with a strong jaw and a wide forehead, the friendly smile on his face looking out of place. There are a few strands of grey in his hair and there are more lines on his face – both laugh lines and frown lines – but Theo recognizes him from the photo in the sitting room.  
  
Theo feels a little relieved at that.  
  
Dean limps up to the counter to shovel spoonfuls of instant coffee into a mug, somehow not dirtying the shirt sleeves that practically swallow his hands. He closes the lid of the can before replying dully, “Loflin’s kid.”  
  
“Loflin?” the tall man’s brows rise in confusion before his forehead wrinkles in interest, “Melissa and... Jeremy?”  
  
“Got it in one.”  
  
“Seriously?” the tall man’s eyes dart between Theo and Dean, “He hardly looks like, uh, Jeremy.”  
  
“Good for him.”  
  
“So, is he maybe…” the tall man averts his eyes from Theo, instead fixing them on Dean as he trails off, one hand waving in a loose circle.  
  
“It doesn’t matter,” Dean says, spooning brown powder from an unmarked can into a second mug.  
  
“Doesn’t matter?” the tall man repeats, brows furrowing, incredulous, “Dean, I was with you after he–”  
  
“Leave it,” Dean bites out, pressing the lid of the can shut.  
  
“Why?” the tall man stretches his arms to his sides, as if to encompass everything into his question, “I mean, we’d narrowed it down to five, so why won’t you just try to reach–”  
  
“Haven’t I fucked enough things up?” Dean shakes his head, face twisting, “I don’t even know how I thought this would work in the first place.”  
  
“I – I hear you, okay,” the tall man sighs, “But at least find him – see him, just to say goodbye – for closure.”  
  
“I don’t need closure, Sam.”  
  
The tall man – Sam – snorts, long brown hair falling out of place from where it had been tucked behind his ears, “Bullshit. You think I can’t see how much you still miss him?”  
  
Dean slams a cabinet door shut as he puts away his cans of drink mix. “Don’t you have a family you should be winning bread for?” he snaps, taking a kettle off the stove.  
  
“Just because I’ve got a white picket fence and a dog doesn’t make you any less my family, Dean,” Sam frowns, straightening from where he’d been leaning against the wall.  
  
“I didn’t say that,” Dean says evenly, though Theo isn’t sure he won’t hurl the kettle of hot water he’s holding, “But you don’t have to check up on me every other week. It’s not like I’m going to go on a killing spree when you’re not looking.”  
  
There’s a long silence after that, Dean pouring hot water into his two mugs, pointedly watching the curl of steam while the other man stares intently at him.  
  
The sound of rain drumming against the house fills the quiet of the kitchen though it does nothing to sooth the brittle atmosphere. The three of them – or perhaps only two, the men having sealed themselves in their own world – swim under the weight of the air.  
  
Then the tall man steps away from the wall, reaching a hand out towards Dean’s hunched shape, but Dean flinches back. The kettle drops a short distance to the counter with a heavy thud as Dean’s hands retreat up his sleeves, his whole body seeming to shrink into his oversized flannel.  
  
The other man pulls back hurriedly, glancing away. “Yeah,” Sam says at last, “I know.”  
  
There’s another long pause in which Dean gradually uncoils, though he still seems smaller than before – smaller than Theo ever thought he could be – and then he’s carrying on as if nothing happened.  
  
He takes the elastic off of a small plastic bag and picks out a large white lump, tearing it almost in half before fixing it against the edge of one of the cups like a margarita lime. He doesn’t look up as he stirs the drinks, “Saturday, right?”  
  
Sam nods stiffly, letting the topic of conversation shift, “Sarah’s making roast.”  
  
Dean hums in approval, “Then I’ll bring the pie.”  
  
“Max’s got a new thing for blueberries.”  
  
“Anything for my man, Max,” Dean lifts his head, a small smile on his lips – and it’s the first unshadowed smile Theo has ever seen on Dean’s face, tiny as it is.  
  
Sam smiles back, a little surprised and a little uncertain, like he’s afraid the kitchen has a limit on the number of smiles that can be housed at a time, “Okay, well, I’ve gotta get to the university.”  
  
“Another day of fuelling co-ed fantasies?” Dean chuckles dryly.  
  
“Don’t be gross, Dean. I’m forty-two,” Sam huffs, “They’re genuinely interested in what I teach.”  
  
“Right, ‘cause witchcraft and urban legends are so useful.”  
  
Sam rolls his eyes, making his way out through the kitchen door, obviously having had this discussion before, “See you later, Dean.” Then he stops over the threshold, adds, “You need to get that shed fixed soon.”  
  
“Yeah,” Dean sighs, tired, as the other man disappears out into the rain, and then he takes a clean looking dishtowel off a hook on the kitchen backsplash.  
  
And the next thing Theo knows, the towel is draped over his wet hair.  
  
In the few seconds it takes for him to wrestle the towel off his face, the thump of Dean’s cane has disappeared up the stairs and Theo is left alone in the kitchen.  
  
He’s not sure what to do. Somehow the room still thrums with tension, like those words – a conversation held half in tongue and half in eye – have saturated the kitchen and stained the fabric of the area. A part of him wants to run up the stairs, to barge into Dean’s forbidden zone and ask him what the hell that had been about, but that same part cringes back, still held in the grip of Dean’s cold gaze, warning him away.  
  
So he stands there, confused and on edge, like this house and its inhabitant tends to make him, wondering if he’s expected to go outside and work on the shed. And then he notices that one of Dean’s two mugs is still sitting, steaming on the counter.  
  
Theo steps closer, towel clutched in his hand as he leans over to take a sniff.  
  
It’s hot chocolate with a large marshmallow.  
  


  


* * *

That evening, when Theo gets home, it takes a concerted effort to not bolt into the family room and start interrogating his mother. He forces himself to first shower and change out of his once again, rain soaked clothes, before calmly descending the stairs. He even manages to keep his fingers from gripping the banister like a life line and when he speaks, he sounds as bland as he does on any other given day.

“Mom.”

“Mhmm?” his mother doesn’t look up from the newspaper she reads, sitting on the sofa in front of the television which is turned on – something Theo never understands since she can’t be both reading and watching the news.

“I was born here, wasn’t I?” Theo asks, seating himself stiffly in a nearby armchair, eyes turned disinterestedly towards the television.

Apparently it’s a slow news day; the reporter on screen recycling the day’s news, starting with the huge thunderstorm in Topeka and the subsequent blackout.

Theo’s mother licks her thumb; turns the page in her paper, “In Lawrence, yes.”

“How long did we live here before moving?”

“We stayed about... four years after you were born,” his mother lowers the newspaper for a moment, head tipped back like the information she seeks is written on the ceiling. Then she nods, “Yeah. That sounds right.”

“Why did we move?”

“Do you like this place that much?” his mother smiles, amused.

“I’m just curious.”

“There was some faulty wiring in the house. We didn’t want to wait around for something bad to happen and I got that offer in New York, so it seemed like a good time.”

“Then… how do you know Dea-Plant – Mr. Plant?” Theo stumbles over the name, not sure if he’s being too casual or too formal.

His mother closes the paper, turning her full attention to him after the unusual fumble in his speech, “Is something wrong?”

Theo looks sideways at his mother, the fingers of one hand pulling at a loose thread in the armrest of his chair, “He made hot chocolate for me.”

One elegant eyebrow rises, “You’ve had hot chocolate before.”

“Yes, but… he made it the way I used to make it – with a large marshmallow on the lip of the cup,” Theo tries not to show how much it disturbs him.

His mother laughs, bringing a slender hand to her mouth, “I’m sure you weren’t the only child who had margarita inspired cocoa.”

Theo’s eyebrows would be rising into his hairline if he were anyone else because he’s quite certain that children making winter drinks modelled after alcoholic beverages are rare enough without adding a generational gap.

“So you don’t know him, yet you leave me alone with him behind closed doors in a scarcely populated area?”

Dark brown eyes return to her newspaper as his mother shakes out the creases. It takes her a lot longer than it should to give him a real answer, but when she does, Theo understands her discomfort on the subject, “He’s a friend of your father’s. That should explain the alcoholic theme.”

Theo huffs, not looking at the family portrait hanging awkwardly above the fireplace, “I thought you didn’t trust Dad or his friends.”

His mother frowns, the wrinkles appearing at the corners of her mouth betraying the thirty something years make up can’t hide, “Has Mr. Plant proven untrustworthy?”

Theo returns her frown and replies, “People say he’s responsible for the missing teens.”

“Do you think he is?”

Theo wants to say ‘yes’, if only to see how his mother would respond, but each time he tries to summon images of occult paraphernalia on the mantle, knives laid out in a row or the shivers that run through him when he steps on Dean’s property, all he can see are slumped shoulders and the smallest of smiles.

“No,” he says.

His mother nods, satisfied, “There we go.”

Then she’s leaning back into the sofa, smoothing a dyed blonde strand away from her forehead before continuing where she left off reading up on the market.

Theo tries to mirror his mother – watching the news recap on the ‘August abductions’. A third teen has disappeared – Ryan Brown – but Theo can’t say he’s particularly sorry to see that he’s missing. Watching his distraught relatives on television, talking about what a sweet child he is, Theo wonders if they know about his arrogant mean streak, not that he wishes any of them ill, especially after looking up the case from seven years ago.

Four children, two from Kansas City, one from Topeka and one from Lawrence, went missing on the same day. No connections could be drawn between them except that they were all the same age. Their bodies were found four days later in four separate locations centered around Lawrence – a hundred miles directly North, South, East, West of the city center. The killings had been ritualistic, the children lying as if sleeping within circles of black paint, strange symbols carved into their forearms – the wounds by which they bled to death.

Theo can see how Evan, having been personally affected, came to draw a connection between the past case and the ‘August abductions’ despite the differences between them. If there is a tie between the cases, then it’ll be difficult for officials to spot when the pattern has changed.

This time, all three missing teens come from the same Lawrence high school, and they haven’t all been taken at once. It’s like whoever is behind this is being more selective, slowly closing in on their end goal, whatever it may be.

So it shouldn’t be hard to focus on Brown when the news report hits so close to home, but Theo finds his eyes drifting inevitably to the family portrait.

It’s an ordinary photo shoot from when he was a boy. Six-year-old him sitting on his mother’s lap, the brown of her long hair melting in with his own dark locks, two sets of the same chocolate-hued eyes peering happily out from behind dusty glass. Theo always did take after his mother’s side of the family and he’s never met his father’s so he can’t make an accurate comparison.

Theo’s probably just projecting his current feelings onto the image, but even in the portrait of ten years ago, his father looks almost like a stranger. Despite the way he stands close behind them in the portrait, both hands resting gently on his mother’s shoulders, his father’s bright blue eyes seem to look far away, weary and too old.

“How does Dad know him?” Theo finds himself asking.

He doesn’t know why he bothers. Asking his mother about his father or vice versa is like doing dental surgery on a shark. It wasn’t always like this, as the family portrait so kindly reminds him, but lately, things have been falling apart.

Theo’s not so blind as to think his delinquency isn’t worsening matters, but he can’t find it in himself to look for alternative ways to feel alive. He has no goals, no sense of purpose or passion. It seems to be a common problem among his age group, but he feels lost and can’t quite bridge the distance between himself and the world, just like how his father can’t quite stop drinking and his mother can’t quite forgive the man for it.

His mother chews her lip, trying to find something to say, “Why don’t you ask him yourself?”

Theo stands up, clicking the television off with a sharp jab of his finger to the remote.

Maybe he’s just being a whiny teen, angsting about his family, but it’s too much sometimes – being in the same room as them. The happy ghosts locked behind photo frames, the workaholic shell sitting on the sofa or the awkward mess sending one sentence emails from whatever city he’s working from this month.

Theo heads quietly out of the family room, seeking refuge in his bedroom – or the lattice outside his window, a godsend escape route.

He sighs as he ascends the stairs, “You could just admit you don’t know.”

 

* * *

Theo has a lot to think about in the days following Monday.

He doesn’t ask his mother again about anything regarding Dean, but he does send a few short messages to his father. He doesn’t expect to get a reply any time soon and he doesn’t.

He’s not even sure why he’s so curious. His mother’s probably right, and his father and Dean must share the marshmallow quirk, but that issue isn’t what’s fuelling his need to know. Something important was discussed in that kitchen, and while his parents’ names were only mentioned, he gets the feeling that the conversation was more pertinent to his family than he first assumed. But while he’s burning with curiosity, he doesn’t dare ask the source of all his anxiety. He’s not even sure if he  _can_.

The minute shakes that start up in his hands when Dean’s nearby, the cold sweat that always breaks out on the back of his neck – all responses that seem to be as natural and ingrained as a rabbit’s fear of flying shadows.

The thing is, he’s not even sure if it’s fear, not after the sort of kindness Dean’s shown him, but what else could it be that makes him listen to the man when he’s never been so affected by anything?

There have always been authority figures – teachers, principles, and on one memorable occasion, officers – that try to intimidate him, talking down to him about being a punk or acting out. There have been kids his own age, wanna-be-bullies like Ryan Brown – whom Theo had easily ignored – and thugs like Nick Miller – whose motive on trying to stab him is still unknown to Theo.

Cool as a cucumber, his friend Justin had said of him, back when he’d lived in New York, before the mess with Nick Miller forced him to move. He wasn’t the one with the weapon, yet he’d still come out on top in that fight, so there have been plenty of situations for Theo to feel small or freaked out in, but he never had until Dean.

If fear is what this is.

Theo stands paralyzed in the back doorway, one foot in the kitchen and one foot still outside, blocking the screen door from closing behind him.

Dean is by the sink, one hand holding a mug of coffee frozen to his lips, the other with white knuckles, gripping the edge of the kitchen counter.

These are minor details Theo is only distantly aware of, because Dean isn’t wearing his usual jeans and oversized flannel. He’s wearing nothing but an AC/DC tee shirt and black boxer briefs.

And his skin.

Theo doesn’t have a hope in Hell of not staring, not when Dean is – his skin – it’s –

Theo’s seen pictures of burn victims and people who have been in really bad car crashes, but the scars Dean is covered in aren’t burn scars or thrown-through-a-window scars. There’s nothing accidental about the precise patterns carved in silver-red across Dean’s skin. Dean is far from mangled – more like he’s covered in tattoos – but something about the surgical lines makes Theo sick, gut roiling and his own skin feeling as if cold steel is tracing into him when he follows the marks down Dean’s arms, his legs, and–

His leg.

His leg is black.

Black like squid ink, like Dean stepped in black paint – sunk himself knee-deep in pitch – and it stained his flesh through and through.

Theo can’t look away, and fuck – he really, really needs to.

Their tableau breaks when Dean drops his mug.

The ceramic shatters on the tile floor and suddenly Dean is jolted into motion, stumbling back against the counter like a cornered animal, lips drawing up in a fanged snarl, “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I – I always–”

“Don’t you read your fucking texts?” Dean spits, jaws snapping, “I told you not to come today!”

Shit, shit, shit. Theo had chucked his phone under his bed yesterday after Jake started sending him picture after picture of dicks, and that’s where his phone still is. He’s never felt such a strong simultaneous need to hide himself and hurt someone, and it keeps him trapped over the threshold like a fly sealed between glass panes.

“You fucking–” Dean starts, but then he slips in the coffee that’s splashed across the tile, and though he’s already braced against the counter, he slides down to the floor, knocking his head against the edge of the countertop with a sharp crack.

“Fuck!” Dean bellows, slumped against cabinet doors, head bowed and hand coming up to prod at the back of his skull, “Goddamnit! Fucking bullshit is c–”

And Dean was right. Theo’s not stupid. He’s got street smarts and he knows he could be book smart if he actually bothered with school, but all his intelligence seems to disappear watching Dean curled against the cabinets, cussing enough to make the paint on the walls peel.

Instead of fleeing like he should if he values his life, Theo approaches Dean. He falls to his knees by the man, hand reaching out and drawing back in alternating jerks, though he eventually manages to lay one hand on Dean’s shoulder. And Dean’s body is surprisingly cold – like he’s just stepped out of a freezer – even through a barrier of worn fabric.

Dean immediately falls silent and still like a switch has been flipped. He doesn’t look at the hand on the sleeve of his shirt, but he speaks icily, “Don’t touch me.”

Theo resists shivering and retracts his hand slowly, “Where… where is your first aid kit?”

Dean obviously wants to tell him to get the hell off his property and never show his face again – or crawl to the cutlery drawer to find a knife – but he can’t. Not when he’s half-sprawled on the floor, blood mixing with coffee as it trickles slowly from the gashes in the bottom of Dean’s feet.

Dean’s jaw works furiously, pride and anger and reason warring openly on his face. Then with a withering glare, he bites out, “Upstairs. Bathroom. First door on the left.”

Theo goes quickly, barely pausing at the foot of the stairs before taking the steps two at a time, entering the section of the house he’d been forbidden from. His head is spinning with the relentless waves of shit he just doesn’t understand. The photo, the scars,  _the leg_  – and though something about Dean’s flesh itches at the edge of his mind, nothing makes sense, so he stops thinking.

The bathroom is exactly where Dean said it would be and he wastes no time pulling open the medicine cabinet and grabbing the first aid kit.

When Theo returns to the kitchen, he sees that Dean has straightened himself against the cabinets and he glowers up at Theo like he curses the day Theo was conceived and all the years after.

“I – I’m–” Theo licks his lips uselessly, his tongue feeling like it’s covered in sand.

“Just toss the shit over, kid,” Dean grunts, waving a hand impatiently, the silver lines crawling up the back of his hand drawing Theo’s eyes like magnets.

“No, let me–” Theo crouches down to help Dean at the same time Dean jerks reflexively back, eyes wide and panicked as his voice cracks on a shouted protest.

But it’s too late.

Theo’s hand brushes against Dean’s skin and the world goes black.


	3. Chapter 3

No sensation, no sound, no sight.  
  
Flowing freeform – formless – no body, no blood.  
  
Waves push-pulled by wind, currents rise-fall in lunar rhythm.  
  
Everything floats, suspended in the wet – in the damp – in the water –  
  
Then voices, like ripples in the dark.  
  
Calm as the deep, “Dean, it’s not your fault.”  
  
An echoing snarl, “Like Hell it’s not my fault! Look at him, Sam! Fuck–”  
  
Muffled bang – fists on felled tree.  
  
Panicked voice, rising in pitch, “Why’d I let him keep coming back? I don’t even really need him to – I mean, I’ve got three others! A triangle’s good enough!”  
  
“Dean–”  
  
“I shouldn’t have and – and the stupid bastard should’ve just stayed in New York, and now I’ve–”  
  
“Dean, no. He’s going to be okay. Look – he’s breathing.”  
  
“You know what else breathes? Coma patients, Sam. Coma patients and vegetables breathe!”  
  
Placating murmur, “He’ll wake up, Dean – I woke up.”  
  
“You and no one else.”  
  
Silence.  
  
“Dean–”  
  
“Fuck, Sam,” a rattling breath, “I – I should never have done it. This is so fucked up and it’s all my–”  
  
“You just wanted to know–”  
  
“Fuck that!” voice strangled, bordering on a sob, “Why’d I have to go looking for him? If I’d just – if I’d just let – let him – I mean, what was the point? The fucking ritual didn’t even  _do anything_  but bust my fucking leg and – and–”  
  
“It told you he didn’t just burn into nothing – he still exists – he’s still alive.” A tired sigh, “I just don’t get why you won’t do something about it when you’re so damn  _close_.”  
  
“You know  _exactly_  why I don’t go out, Sam.” Breathless, “And I – I’ve known... I’ve known for a while now.”  
  
“Wait, all this time you–” the rustle of cloth; a sharp intake of breath, “It’s okay, Dean. Everything’s going to be okay. No one’s dying, and it’s not your fault, so just–”  
  
“Sam,” small and pained, “Even if everything’s – even if everything’s going to be okay. You’re right, I have to–”  
  
“No! Screw what I said, you don’t have to–”  
  
“But I do,” a choked laugh, bitter, “He already died twice for me. Least I can do is let him live once for himself.”  
  
“Dean...”  
  
Theo’s eyes slide open slowly, feeling like he’s surfacing from the depths of the ocean, guided only by the distant sun.  
  
“Oh, he’s waking up,” hazel, gradually sharpening as Theo focuses, his awareness expanding to brown hair hanging down over a broad forehead; relieved smile, a little tight in the corners.  
  
“Hey there, Theo,” the tall man – Sam – says gently. “How’re you feeling?”  
  
“I’m... fine,” Theo mumbles, throat feeling like it’s coated in silt and voice just as gravelly; strangely rough and deep. “What... what happened?”  
  
“You slipped and bumped your head,” Sam says as he looks over Theo with a critical eye.  
  
Theo’s brows furrow, “No. That was Dean.”  
  
“You too,” Sam’s smile turns apologetic, “The kitchen’s always been damn slippery and the spilled coffee didn’t help any.” He leans back, revealing bright rectangles of afternoon sunlight drawn on the watermarked ceiling. Sam’s smile falters, his concern bleeding over, “You sure you’re okay?”  
  
“Yes,” Theo answers flatly, finding it surprisingly easy to push himself into a sitting position while Sam’s large hands hover nearby, torn between helping or stopping Theo from moving; Sam’s eyes locked onto him like that’ll keep him conscious.  
  
Resting against the back of the sofa, Theo rubs his eyes, lowers his hands and raises his head to ask, “How is De–”  
  
He stops.  
  
Dean is huddled on the floor in the far corner, walled inside a twisted imitation of a child’s fort made from a side table, an armchair, and cushions pilfered from the other pieces of furniture in the sitting room. His arms are wrapped around his knees, bowed head hidden under the hood of the oversized hoodie he wears, and his hands are covered by his singed oven mitts, the eyes of the cartoon pigs staring balefully at Theo.  
  
Sam clears his throat, moving to block Theo’s view of Dean, “He’s... he’s fine too.”  
  
Only, now that he can’t see Dean, Theo can see streaks of red on the floor where a cloth failed to wipe away the mess – half a bloody footprint beside the coffee table, the dried ring where there used to be a small puddle by the sofa. And there are books, magazines, knick knacks and even a lamp lying broken on the floor – obviously objects that had been hurled from the corner of the room.  
  
Theo looks at Sam incredulously, wondering how they expect him to buy such a blatant lie, “He doesn’t look fine.”  
  
Sam swallows uncomfortably, “It’s just how he... how he gets sometimes...”  
  
There’s a hysterical laugh from the corner and Sam’s shoulders stiffen, “Yeah, that’s me. I’m a – a crazy murderer, don’t you know?”  
  
“Dean!”  
  
But Dean ignores him, instead dragging his gloved hands over the top of his hood, stretching the navy fabric tight against his skull like he wants to block out every sight and every sound, “That’s why – that’s why you should just say ‘no’, kid. No idiotic, inter-dimensional trips ‘cause there’re some places you just shouldn’t step foot in and–”  
  
Sam looks pained as he turns to move towards Dean, and though Dean’s face is now buried in his arms, he seems to sense Sam’s intention and his voice swings smoothly from wild and shaky to cold and sharp, “Stay back.”  
  
Sam stops, having barely moved one foot. There’s a fresh rectangular bruise at his temple – the corner of a book – but the wrinkles in his forehead and the slight tremble of his hands tell Theo how much he wants to run to the other man’s side.  
  
“Kid,” Dean says, the ‘k’ crisp like the bite of ozone, and Theo feels just as trapped as Sam when green strikes him from under the shadow of Dean’s hood, “You don’t have to fix the shed anymore. Sam’s going to make sure you’re okay and drive you home.”  
  
And Dean shouldn’t be able to command such authority over either Sam or Theo, not when he’s still tucked small and frail in the corner, but he does. Like his words are claps of thunder, they echo in the air, struck home with the bright flash of his eyes, “Don’t come back here again.”  
  
Theo’s chest seems to fill with liquid, making it difficult to breath. Cold fluid trickles into his empty spaces, exaggerating their dimensions like the distortion of light through water, only there is nothing but the smothering darkness of earlier – squid ink blooming dark and blinding; pitch smeared across his lips, sealing him in his frozen body.  
  
It’s not until Dean snaps at them with a rumbled, “Go!” that they tumble into action. Sam hustles him out of the room, both of them swivelling their heads back and forth between Dean and the front door like they’re metronomes, ticking to the time Dean’s set, but waiting for him to change his mind and let them stay.  
  
“Goodbye, Theo,” Dean says softly as they make their exit, but it sounds wrong to Theo’s ears, a rip current raking down his spine.  
  
“It’s not–” Theo starts to say, but he doesn’t know what it’s not. All he knows is that there’s a ‘No’ building up in the back of his throat, and it’s not a ‘no’ to drugs, but waves rolling into waves, a roaring tide reaching-racing to the sky.  
  
But then the front door is clicking shut behind them, and though the cry goes unheard, it isn’t silenced.  
  


  


* * *

_Answer me._

Theo hits ‘send’, launching yet another message into the dark clouds overhead.

“Dude, callin’ yer Pappy again?” Jake slurs from where he’s lying on the grass, stoned out of his mind.

“Something like that,” Theo grunts, nose twitching with the thick smoke the wind fails to disperse.

“Aw, cheer up Thee-O,” Evan smiles, flinging one arm around Theo’s shoulders and waving his blunt at Theo with a wobbly hand, “C’mon, Puff the Magic Dragon.”

Theo takes the little stub, holding it between his fingers half-heartedly.

He wishes it would just rain already, if only so he can have an excuse to go home and brood by himself, but the world seems intent on holding out on him – the clouds refusing to pour down their burdens though the weather forecast had predicted the torrent to come days ago.

He could have just ignored the bombardment of texts urging him to drop by Evan’s, yet here he is, lying in the blue haired boy’s backyard and glaring moodily at the smudged screen of his phone.

“Thee-O,” Evan slaps at his shoulder disapprovingly, “You’re three days into your freedom but you’re acting like those cookies in my sock drawer, all soggy and  _old_. What happened to ‘fuck-the-world-Theo’?”

“Yeah,” Jake’s foot nudges Theo’s knee sluggishly, “You’re not Theo, you’re freaking... Eeyore.”

“No, no, that ain’t right,” Evan grins impishly, “Theo’s definitely an ass. He’s just been replaced by an ice princess.”

“Nah, he’s always been a frigid bitch.”

Theo shakes off Evan’s arm, eyes rolling in exasperation as he shoves the blunt back into Evan’s clumsy grasp.

Instead of listening to Evan and Jake debate the size of the stick up his ass, he watches his phone as if staring at it and keeping the screen from blacking will make his father reply.

He’d never realized how... tiresome his friends could be when they’re high – probably because he’d been just as stoned as them. Normally, he’d be happy to drink himself into unconsciousness or light up until he couldn’t breathe for laughing, but lately, those activities have lost their appeal. And that doesn’t make sense, because Theo’s feeling just as mired and misplaced as he ever has, only this time...

This time he knows alcohol and weed won’t be enough, if it ever was.

“Hey-o, Thee-O,” Jake prods at him with his sneaker, “I asked you a question, man.”

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t listening,” Theo rubs a finger between his brows.

“’Kay, well any crazy dreams lately?” Jake lolls his head to look at Theo, “Or like, hallucinations or shit?”

Theo’s forehead crinkles, “Why would I be having crazy dreams?”

Evan laughs, spiky blue hair bouncing with his mindless amusement, “True – you haven’t been hangin’ with us all week, so no fucked up beddy-byes for you.”

Jake claps his hands impatiently to get their attention, “Yeah, well, like I was sayin’. Last night – or last-last night – I had this trippy dream and I hadn’t even, like, taken anything before sleeping. So I just wanted to know... you guys ever had that?”

“I only remember bits and pieces of the shit when I wake up,” Evan shrugs, “Sorry, man.”

“How ‘bout you, Thee-O?”

Theo resists checking his phone again, instead trying to pay attention to the boy sprawled across from him, using Jake’s curly bed-head as a point of focus, “I don’t dream.”

“No way,” Jake’s bloodshot eyes squint, disbelieving, “Not even a flying dream – or like, a dream where you’re a field?” he wiggles his arms, imitating the sway of grass in the wind, “Maybe a dream where you’re, like, a rock?” Jake stiffens his arms against his sides, trying to look like a statue and failing.

Evan bursts into laughter, snake bites glinting in the dim light as he slaps his knees and clutches his sides at something Theo can’t find hilarious.

“Maybe you had a dream where you were a wood – had a wood – in a wood – had a wood in you?” Jake grins suggestively at Theo, “Maybe a dream where you were with... Plant?”

Theo’s face contorts in confusion.

“Aw, c’mon, banana bread,” Jake snorts, strong jaw jutting out, “It’s not like this is coming out of left field.”

“He’s right,” Evan rubs at his thin sides, still breathless. “Seriously, you’re like, obsessed with the guy.”

“I’m not obsessed.”

“You totally are,” Evan smirks, pulling up a handful of grass and throwing it at Theo, “You freaking biked twenty miles a day just ‘cause he  _asked you to_  – didn’t even fight ‘im on it – and you were all white-knight about his good name, and now you’re  _texting your Dad_  about him.”

Theo’s brows furrow, “He’s just... interesting.”

And if that isn’t the understatement of his life.

Theo doesn’t know how to voice the questions burning on the tip of his tongue. He doesn’t know how to ask about the scars or the leg; the shadows of Dean’s past or the memory – just a photo, just a passing conversation without name – that haunts Dean, tattooed into him deeper than knives can reach. He doesn’t know how to ask about any of the shit even remotely related to Dean – marshmallow drinks and distant fathers – but there must be a way to learn. There is a connection here just out of eyeshot, and there has to be a way to make it. There has to be  _something_.

“How ‘bout this,” Jake smacks his lips together absently, dragging square fingers through the blonde mess on his head, “You tell me what yer crazy dream was, an’ we’ll tell you s’more Planty things.”

It probably means something that it takes no time for Theo to decide, “I dreamt I was a tree.”

And that’s a lie – something he’s not in the habit of telling – but he wants to move the conversation along and he looks eager enough for his words to be taken as honest. It was the first thing that came to mind and Jake can take it however he likes, stoned as he is. Theo doesn’t have the patience to explain how he doesn’t dream – has never dreamed – how every night is the same lapping darkness behind his eyelids, the same ocean of nothing.

“Really? A tree,” Jake repeats. “Like, the tallest-tree-in-the-forest kind of tree?” at Theo’s nod, Jake grins lopsidedly. Then he chirps in a sing-a-song falsetto, octaves higher than his usual tone, “Tim-ber!”

“Dude, you’re so fuckin’ high,” Evan shakes his head, trying to smother another laugh behind spindly fingers.

Theo grinds his knuckles into the dust by his side, “Now tell me what you know about Dea-Plant.”

“You’re really gonna trust what Jake says?” Evan turns a skeptical eye on the curly haired teen grinning lazily up at the overcast sky, “Hell, I don’t even believe half the shit he says when he’s sober, and weren’t you the one that was all ‘rumours are bad, bad, bad’?”

And Evan has a point. Theo doesn’t bother trying to see what Jake’s seeing in the heavy clouds that have been blowing in, so Theo reminds himself the fastest way to deal with a stoned Jake is to talk to Evan.

Theo grits his jaw, frustrated, he says to the blue haired boy, “I know these are rumours and therefore exaggerated, but every story has a grain of truth.”

“I’d say what I tell ya has buttloads of truth,” Jake interrupts before Evan can reply, rolling over onto his stomach, speaking into the dirt, “Maybe Plant’s, like, all buddy-buddy with you – which is fucking creepy, by the way, but you bein’ a kinky sunnuvagun, he’s probably, like, a birthday present– an’ right on time cause yer b-day’s tomorrow, right? Both you an’ Evan are August babies, yeah? So lucky you, I mean, he ain’t the ugliest thing ‘round here. Hell, he’s kinda old, but he’s even prettier than Alic–”

“What he means,” Evan says, pushing Jake’s blonde head further into the dirt, “Is that – like I’ve said before – Plant’s freaking crazy. I swear he killed to get his land – that’s how bad he wanted that place – and the way he guards that shit? It’s an island of crap, but he patrols the hell out of it and, well,  _normally_ , if he catches you trespassing–” Evan draws a finger across his pale throat, tongue lolling out and eyes crossing.

“We’ve gone over this. He’s not a murderer.”

“He’s not a  _murderer_ ,” Jake repeats into the dirt. “Yeah, guess you can’t say that wolves murder Bambi or people murder ants.”

Theo frowns, “Plant recognizes himself and others as human.”

Jake snuffles a laugh into the dirt, tapping a hand against Evan’s shoe.

“Uh, wasn’t it you who had the shotgun to the face?” Evan turns his hands palm up, smile indulgent like a parent reminding their child about the last time they tried going on the big kid swing.

“I did destroy his shed,” Theo’s hands twist irritably, leaving off the ‘And you both took part in that, but not the punishment.’

Theo doesn’t really begrudge them on it though, not after all that’s happened. He can’t imagine Dean tolerating Evan or Jake, and a part of him is glad that it was he and not one of the other two that had been caught. Theo is – was – probably an annoyance to the man, but just picturing one of the other boys in his place sends an irrational flare of jealousy through his gut – as if it’s Theo’s place to protect Dean; as if Dean is the one who needs protection.

“Pft,” Jake pillows his head on his arms, “What, you believe Katie Abbott’s story?”

Theo’s hand tightens on his phone, “I haven’t heard it.”

“Good. It’s gar-bage,” Jake draws out his words as if to reinforce his feelings on the matter.

“You’re just sayin’ that ‘cause you don’t like her,” Evan pouts, snake bites pushed out with his lip.

“An’ you do?” annoyed brown eyes fix on Evan, “She dumped yer ass, man.”

Theo heaves a deep breath, mouth drawing into a thin line as he reels Jake back into his end of the deal, “Tell me what she saw.”

“M’kay, m’kay, no need to blow a fuse, cheesecake,” Jake winks, turning back to Theo and wiping the dirt from his mouth onto his arm, “So, the Abbott property’s next to the Plant property, an’ one night Katie’s bro threw some of her shit on Plant’s land, so she went to go get it. Apparently,” Jake grins disbelievingly, “She saw Plant at his Southeast shed. And this is where you get, like, three different versions of what his sheds are for.”

“Version one,” Evan raises one finger, “Plant’s sheds are filled with weapons – freaking torture chambers in five by five shacks.”

“Version B,” Jake raises two fingers, “Plant’s sheds are bone pits where he chucks the chopped up bits of his victims.”

“Yeah, and Version  _trois_ : he stores gardening equipment in ‘em.”

Then Evan and Jake exchange looks, holding their faces in solemn consideration for a few seconds before bursting into raucous laughter.

Theo waits nearly ten minutes for them to settle down, incensed by their amusement, “How are there three versions?” he scowls, like that’s the main problem he has with what he’s heard. “Katie could have only been witness to one.”

“Yeah, but does it matter? They’re all stupid,” Jake chuckles, scratching at the small of his back.

“What did she see?”

Evan waves his hands in the air apologetically, being the more empathetic of the pair he sobers quickly under Theo’s glare, “She said she saw Plant praying.” He shrugs, “And that was all.”

 

 

* * *

Theo has never been in such turmoil over something so minor – only, he’s not sure if it’s minor or not.

It shouldn’t matter. Dean shouldn’t matter. It was only three weeks and Theo never has to see him again; never has to decipher chicken scratch blueprints again; never has to lug around another splint of wood or saw another plank.

No more crabby complaints or dirty jokes, no more strangely gourmet sandwiches or iced lemonade delivered before he even knows he needs it. No more careful eyes watching out for him, giving him gruff pointers or slaps on the back and ill-disguised compliments. No more smiles, however small and shadowed.

It shouldn’t matter, but it does.

Theo broke one of Dean’s sheds and didn’t finish fixing it, so he’ll fix whatever’s wrong with Dean – and that sounds reasonable in his head, but he knows it’s a flimsy excuse for his curiosity. He can’t stop now though – he’s seen too much of Dean to not look for the rest.

He needs answers.

So he sits at his kitchen table, frustrated, scribbling on a pad of paper, wasting all the pen ink on a messy blue pool that he goes over again and again until it’s a solid inky darkness. It’s been an hour, and he’s still trying to remember what the fuck was in the shed. He mowed the damn thing over with a tractor, had the contents spilled before him and spent weeks picking through the mess trying to resurrect its former shitty glory.

So why can’t he remember?

There had been something scratched into the wood – he knows that much for sure. Dean had made him sort the wood into piles – marked and unmarked. Little zigzags like snakes, arcs and swirls and geometric shapes. Engravings that might have been bits of foreign alphabet, the shattered circumferences of concentric circles. Stains that could’ve been crushed berries; paint; blood.

But was there anything  _in_  the shed?

It definitely hadn’t housed any sort of equipment. Not even shovels or rakes or construction tools – those had been in Dean’s garage. As far as he can recall, there was nothing inside. It was just a pile of crushed and splintered wood, churned dirt and twigs and – and –

Dean had picked something up from the debris. He’d picked something up, and his face had gone blank in that way that’s painful to see.

A strip of blue fabric.

A tie.

Theo’s pen clatters to the kitchen table.

Are the rumours actually true? Are the sheds really graves?

Somehow he knows the tie belongs to whoever is in the photo in Dean’s sitting room, but what does that mean?

Maybe the shed’s just a giant keepsake box. Maybe Dean likes to keep multiple, giant, outdoor keepsake boxes.

Yeah, right.

Theo’s been turning a blind eye to all the strange shit in Dean’s house – the dark edge in Dean’s eye – but Dean himself had said he was a murderer. And maybe that was because Dean had been having a break down, but even killers can feel remorse, can’t they?

Even a faithless man has prayers to be heard.

And Theo tries to find another explanation because Dean is just  _Dean_.

Yet nothing else he thinks of can explain the snippets of conversation –  _I’ve got three others!_  – he’s overheard or the unconsciousness –  _the fucking ritual didn’t even do anything_ – he suffered.

Maybe they’d been speaking with hyperboles or euphemisms. Maybe Dean’s feelings are just misplaced – like survivor’s guilt or friendly fire – and whatever happened to Dean in the past, between himself and whoever –  _you think I can’t see how much you still miss him?_ – has left him a mess.

Or maybe Dean is genuinely mad, and Sam plays along; protects him – from himself, from an outside force – Theo doesn’t know. He can’t even say what Sam’s protection might entail, not after seeing Sam tremble in the sitting room, hands fisted and eyes fierce with a level of emotion that Theo knows could easily be put to fatal use in Dean’s name.

He tries thinking of the scarring as extreme body modification; tries thinking of the leg as the aftermath of an illness – but it doesn’t fit.

Theo hasn’t seen the symbols that were carved into the children’s forearms in the case of seven years ago, but he’s willing to bet they resemble the patterns of silver-red on Dean’s skin.

No matter which way he tries to mash it – Dean’s just a man, a man who’s been hurt – he knows Dean isn’t innocent – not entirely.

But what does that mean to him?

Something in Theo’s bones thrums as persistently as the buzz of the refrigerator, whispering impossible things and feeding him irrational urges. It’s not even a new feeling, as evidenced by the fact that he’s carrying his lock picking set in his pocket, his bike still leaning against the side of the house waiting to be ridden.

Maybe insanity is catching, except he hears no voice but his own, and it’s telling him–

“I’m back!”

Theo jumps in his seat as he’s torn roughly from his thoughts, head swivelling in alarm to the front door, but before he can even register what he’s seeing, he’s smothered against a white cotton button down, arms wrapping tight around the back of his neck.

“Dad?” Theo asks numbly, feeling like a bucket of ice has just been tossed over him.

Theo peels himself away from his father and stares up into anxious blue eyes.

His father looks like he flew from New York to Lawrence, duct taped to the underside of an airplane wing and drinking straight vodka all the way. His suit jacket is rumpled, the buttons on his white shirt misaligned, and there’s a plastic shopping bag on the floor by his side – dropped in his apparent haste to hug Theo – rather than his usual travel duffel.

“Dad,” Theo’s mouth opens and closes like a fish, “I – why are–”

“Happy birthday, Teddy,” his father smiles tiredly, looking strangely relieved as he slumps into the chair next to him, “I didn’t know if I’d make it. Flights were being rerouted like the control tower’s been taken in a coup d’état by kindergarteners. The weather’s just been crazy, thunderstorms...” his father’s eyes droop for a moment in fatigue before he jerks back, fingers clutching the edge of the table, face frozen, “Electrical storms.”

Theo stares edgily at his father, unease pooling in his gut at his father’s stiff posture, “I know you’ve never missed my birthday, but you didn’t have to fly here. You could have sent a text or an email. Not even Mom can make it home tonight.”

“You were asking me about Dean,” his father’s voice cracks on the name as he turns abruptly in his seat to face Theo, “Why were you asking me about Dean?”

“I drove a tractor into his shed–”

“You what?” his father’s voice comes out thin.

“Didn’t Mom tell you?”

“She told me you got into trouble with him,” his father’s fingers curl reflexively, “But one of his  _sheds_?”

Theo grimaces, taking a little comfort from the fact that his mother removed all the alcohol in the house, “In return for not pressing charges, I was helping him fix his shed–”

“You’ve been hanging around on his property?” his father looks unhealthily pale.

“I’m not anymore,” Theo frowns, “But why are you so worried, aren’t you friends?”

“Oh, good,” his father sighs. He continues hesitantly, dragging his hands over his face wearily, “Yes, you could say that we’re friends, but ‘Dean’ and ‘life’ have been mutually exclusive for years.”

“What do you mean by that?” Theo asks sharply.

His father doesn’t answer, instead getting out of the chair to rummage through the stacks of old newspaper piled on the corner of the kitchen table, “Have you seen or spoken to anyone suspicious?”

Theo wants an answer to his question, but his father turns serious eyes on him, expression foreign in a way that has become too familiar in the past weeks – the thousand yard stare, the surety of a sinking ship – and he wonders if maybe it’s always been there and he just didn’t know how to identify it.

“No, there... there has been no one suspicious.”

Except for Dean, Sam and apparently, his father.

Theo doesn’t claim to have the best relationship with either of his parents – his father especially, as the man’s always travelling for his work – but surely what he knows about the man can’t be so far from the truth.

They’re family, and even when the fights got really bad or the distance too cold, they always remained connected. That’s why the portrait hangs above the fireplace, however awkward or upsetting it may be to see at times.

Something of his thoughts must show on his face, because his father softens, stepping back from the newspapers and resting a hand on Theo’s shoulder, “Hey, Teddy, don’t worry. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

Again, his father doesn’t answer. Instead, his eyes fall on a local paper lying beneath a stack of flyers and he reaches out for it, tugging it out from under the pile and flipping it open. He scans through it quickly, fingers tightening on the edge of the newsprint.

It only takes a minute for his father to finish reading whatever he’s reading, and then he’s folding the newsprint shut with shaking hands, “Alright, I need to run out for a bit.”

His father tucks the paper under his arm and picks up his plastic bag from the floor to deposit it on the table. He rolls down the plastic to reveal a cake that was probably purchased at the airport, “I just need to go talk to someone, and then I’ll be right back to watch you blow out the candles, ‘kay, Teddy?”

“Dad, tell me what’s wrong,” Theo darts a hand out to keep his father from going anywhere, but the man sidesteps, distracted, towards the window.

His father seems to peer outside at the storm clouds that darken the evening sky, except the man’s head is tilted down and his fingers make a move to touch the window before hastily withdrawing and diving into his pocket, “Just stay here, Teddy. Stay here.”

“Dad, just tell me–”

But then his father’s taking his car keys out from his pocket and dashing towards the front door, calling over his shoulder, “Just sit tight and don’t go anywhere. I’ll explain everything when I get back, alright?”

His father doesn’t wait for an answer before he’s gone, the slam of the front door followed by the low hum of an engine, the crunch of gravel under tires, and then the screech of a corner being taken too quickly by the old Ford.

Theo grits his teeth angrily, fingers curling into fists as his whole body rings on edge.

He knows what article his father had been reading, knows what three pictures caught his eye and what three names the man had been repeating under his breath. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out where his father’s going, and if he thinks that Theo’s just going to sit at home, waiting to be fed lies, then Theo underestimating his father isn’t the only mistaken judgement of the evening.

There’s a choice to be made here. He can sit around in the dark and be satisfied with how things are, or he can go and find out what has been happening – what he’s been missing.

So Theo takes his phone from his pocket and dials.

Theo walks up to the window his father had been standing at and waits while the phone rings once, twice, three times – the tone grating on his nerves – then an answer.

“Hey, muffin,” Jake drawls, Evan’s voice in the background asking who it is.

“You have access to a car,” Theo states – not a question.

He can almost hear Jake’s grin through the phone, “Oh, Thee-O, and here I was, thinking you weren’t going to let me throw you a birthday bash.”

“Come pick me up,” Theo says curtly, brows furrowing as he draws a puzzled finger through the line of white crystals on the window sill, “I have a present I need to unwrap.”

 

* * *

The sun is beginning to set by the time they make it to the edge of Dean’s property, not that Theo can tell with the thick cloud cover casting the sky and the land with early darkness, leaving hardly enough light to see by when there’s a lack of streetlights along the road.

The wind has picked up, blowing harshly through the leaves of the sparse trees and the long grass in the fields. A fine layer of dust flies just over the paved surface of the road, getting into Theo’s shoes and up his pant legs, but Theo pays it no mind as he continues marching forwards.

“Okay, why are we here?” Evan asks hesitantly as he trails after Theo, following him off the road and into dead grass, the wind licking his hair off his forehead.

“You don’t have to be here,” Theo repeats again, stomping down on some weeds that try to get in his way, “I would actually like it if you left.”

“That’s so not cool,” Jake grumbles from the tail of their group, still standing by the edge of the road, “Why’d you call then?”

“I just needed a faster method of transport,” Theo scans the horizon, trying to orient himself, “Think of it as your birthday present to me.”

Theo doesn’t need to glance over his shoulder to know that Jake’s glowering at his back.

“Fine then,” Jake snorts, “C’mon, Evan, let the princess have her tea party in peace.”

“But he–” Evan starts to say before sighing, rubbing tiredly at his eyes, “Yeah. Okay.”

Then the shorter boy is plodding off back to the road, following Jake to where the car’s parked just out of sight near the property line between Dean’s land and the Abbott’s land.

Theo does appreciate all the support his friends provide and he knows that it was a pretty mean thing for him to say and do, but he can’t care right now, not when his father has at least a twenty minute lead on him. So he sprints through the grass, heading for the lights of the main house and promising himself that he’ll make it up to his friends later.

He stumbles a few times on the uneven ground and he nearly slides into a ditch, being unfamiliar with the Eastern half of the property, but it’s mostly field and his only concern is accidentally falling into the pond. He’s pretty sure the murky pool is located closer to the dark trees which he can tell are at least a hundred yards north of him, but the dark is gathering quickly now and he doesn’t want to use the small flashlight he brought along nor break his neck, so he slows his pace.

He’s not even sure what he’s going to do when he gets to the house.

Barge in? Demand answers and expect to be told the truth?

He doesn’t even know what to ask, ‘what the fuck is going on?’ is a bit vague.

Now that he’s approaching his goal, his earlier determination and resolve begin to wear down with splashes of uncertainty and doubt.

What if he’s just been reading too much into everything?

What if the tie was just in the shed because Dean didn’t want to look at it; didn’t want to be reminded of the past?

What if Dean is really just a freelance writer?

What if? What if? What if?

But then Theo is crouched beneath the window of the sitting room, peering cautiously into the lamp lit house, and the ‘what if’s become inconsequential in the face of what he might learn as he looks inside.

The room’s been cleaned up, no longer the mess that Theo had last seen it in. The furniture is set to rights, the books, magazines and knick knacks put back in their places though the room is still one lamp short, leaving the occupants looking like gaunt shadows of men.

It’s just his father and Sam sitting awkwardly across from each other and it looks like whatever they’ve been talking about has come to a close. Theo almost curses out loud, but then Dean comes into view, descending the stairs slowly with two crutches instead of his cane and Theo feels a twinge of guilt, realizing that Dean must be trying to keep his weight off his still healing feet.

“...ean,” his father says, getting up from the couch to face the other man.

Theo can hardly hear them through the glass, but the wind is thankfully less of a problem, crouched as he is against the side of the house.

Dean squints at Theo’s father, “What happe...d to your face?”

“My what?” his father’s eyes wrinkle in confusion before smoothing, “Oh, I shaved.”

Dean quirks a brow and then his face falls into a grim mask, “Wha... ...ou doing here?”

“...August born have b... going missing again. Kids born right after the Final Battl...” his father says, tone anxious.

Dean nods gravely, “...eah, I know.”

“That’s it?” his father frowns.

“What do you mean ‘that’s it’?”

“You know that she’s back and you’re just going to–”

Dean’s eyes flash, “She’s not going to get in.”

“...en why is she on the move?”

“How the fuck should I know?” Dean snaps, “Whatever she’s thinking, she’s not going to get in.”

His father’s voice rises, hands waving at his sides with open palms, “You keep saying that, but the fact that she even  _knows_  this much – which kids, where you live – isn’t giving me a lot of confidence, guys.”

Sam speaks up, calm, but his deep voice carries easily to Theo’s ears, “We’re already doing everything we can. We’ve got the strongest wards possible down–”

“We don’t even really know how the wards work!” his father exclaims, dragging one hand through his russet hair.

“...e know enough.”

“Yeah, enough to use them, but weren’t they supposed to be unbreakable?”

“They’re not broken,” Dean snarls, hobbling further into the sitting room, “If they were, the bitch would already be here.”

“Well they’re definitely weaker. Why aren’t they fixed yet?”

“... takes time,” Dean grunts, lips curling.

“Hey, I know you’re worr… … …re all worried,” Sam says, gesturing for Theo’s father to sit down – which he does – and Sam continues, “… already got three kids and she’s obviously not just pinpointing our location this time.”

“...en why’d she take them?” his father sighs, hunching over his knees on the sofa.

“...ey’re probably for the actual ritual,” Dean says, staring coldly out the window, making Theo duck down, paranoid – not entirely sure if he’s being irrational – about Dean somehow being able to see him though he’s hidden in the dark.

Sam looks up sharply and Dean scowls, “Her version.” Dean shakes his head, tugs at his shirtsleeve, “... paid for my own.”

“...eren’t you jus... ..aying that she’s not getting in?” his father frowns.

Sam sighs, “She’s not, but if she thinks she can ...en she’s going to plan for it.”

There’s a heavy pause, then a loud thud as Dean smacks one of his crutches against the leg of a side table, “Goddamn I wish we still had the knife or the Colt or  _something_.”

“Exorcisms would be great,” Sam agrees, long hair dislodging with a shake of his head.

“How can we possibly win?” his father’s voice is strained, “We can’t kill her, we can’t send her to Hell – not after you guys shut the gates – so what... What can we do?”

Dean’s voice is low and not at all confident, “Trap her.”

There’s another long pause and even the wind outside seems to take part in the silence. The men’s thoughts turn inwards, each contemplating Dean’s suggestion and each seeming to come to the same defeated conclusion though no one states what that conclusion is.

“...ell I’m not going anywhere,” Dean shrugs carelessly, “...ou two should probably haul ass and get out of here.”

“... not leaving you alone for this, De...,” Sam stands up from the sofa, hands fisting at his sides.

“... can’t stay forever, man... ...ot a wife and kid to look after,” Dean frowns at Sam before jerking his chin sharply at Theo’s father, “And you – shouldn’t ...ou be looking after the kid?”

“...eah,” his father scrubs his hands over his face, looking like he’d be willing to drink rubbing alcohol if there’s nothing else available, “...eah... .... – I just needed to see – to see what was happening.”

“Alright, you need to get home,” Sam says to Theo’s father, laying a large palm on the shorter man’s shoulder, “I’m just going to check the wards one last time for the night.”

Sam starts to circle around the sofa towards the front door, but he stops as Dean makes a move to shuffle after him, “Dean, no. You’re staying here.”

“Like hell I am–”

Theo lets his back slide down the side of the house, more confused now than ever.

They’d been talking about some woman and wards and rituals and exorcisms and – and – _fuck_.

Even his father seems serious about whatever’s happening and it’s obviously not a topic that’s going to come up in any conversation Theo will be allowed to participate in.

So where does that leave him?

He’s still answerless – or maybe he has the answers, but just has no fucking clue how to make sense of them. He still has the feeling that he’s missing something important – something he  _needs_  – gnawing at him like a parasite set loose in his ribcage, shooting through the ventricles of his heart and making his blood pump double time. It’s overwhelming and Theo might liquefy with the stress that’s partially from this innate need and partially  _confusion_  on  _why_  it’s an innate need.

But he can’t stop now, if he ever had a chance of stopping at all.

So Theo gets up, keeping low as he dashes away from the house – Southeast – back the way he came from.

If there’s one thing that Theo knows for sure, it’s that Dean is stubborn, so he’s got at least fifteen minutes before he and Sam finish arguing about who gets to go check on the ‘wards’ or whatever the fuck which will lead them outside.

That’s enough time for Theo to make it to the Southeast corner of the property, and make one last attempt to answer the question that’s been haunting him since he set foot on this land – maybe even before that.

When Theo finally reaches the Southeast shed, he doesn’t know whether he’s disappointed or intimidated. It looks exactly like the shed Theo had destroyed more than three weeks ago – a wooden block with no distinguishing features and no windows. Just a door.

The walls are innocuous, made from plain wooden planks, but Theo knows that on the inside, there are markings scratched and smeared in patterns – but what else?

Theo takes out his flashlight, shining the small beam onto the door so he can see that it’s kept closed with a simple chain and a heavy padlock – the kind that’s always depicted in cartoons – covered in intricate engravings. It doesn’t look store bought, and Theo worries briefly about whether or not he’ll be able to break it so he’s surprised when he only needs one pick from his set to pop the lock open, the click of metal unsnapping eerily loud in the silence of the night.

He swings the door open and steps inside.

Theo can’t see much, his tiny flashlight illuminating only a small circle, so he’s momentarily puzzled when he feels something soft beneath his feet and quickly points the beam down.

Grass. Soft grass, living and green.

Theo trails the beam of his light slowly higher, over the base of the wall where he sees that he was right – odd letters and concentric circles – and then–

A man hanging from the ceiling.

Theo’s heart skips a beat and he drops his flashlight, sending the light skittering around the inside of the shed in an erratic pattern. Theo stumbles backwards, falling on his ass in the doorway of the shed.

His blood is pounding in his ears – the only sound he can hear – and he needs to get away – he needs to–

Theo’s brow furrows as the flashlight finally settles on the floor of the shed, the beam angled just right to show that, no, it’s not a man.

It’s a trench coat.

It’s just a trench coat on a coat hanger, suspended from the ceiling.

Theo’s tempted to laugh at himself for getting so worked up that he thought there would be an actual dead body hanging in the shed, but he doesn’t because now that his heart’s slowed and the blood isn’t rushing through his ears, he notices that it’s quiet. The wind has stopped blowing and–

Footsteps.

Shit.

Theo scrambles to close the door silently and fumbles with the lock and chain which simply refuse to rewrap around the handle or snap back into place, so he gives up, leaving the metal hanging haphazardly. He doesn’t have anywhere to hide though – it’s a field – so the best he can do is duck down by the side of the shed and hope the grass is tall enough as he listens to the approach of dragging footsteps flattening the grass.

And that’s when he remembers the flashlight is still switched on and lying on the floor of the shed. He’s about ready to kick himself when a voice speaks up, “You don’t have to hide y’know.”

Theo frowns, peering around the side of the shed in confusion, “Jake?” It’s too dark to see clearly, but Theo can recognize the riot of curly hair, “I thought you left.”

Jake shrugs, moving closer to the shed with his strangely dragging steps. The grass parts easily around him and soon he’s close enough to be illuminated by the strip of light shining from beneath the shed door.

“Yeah well, angel cake,” Jake grins, eyes flashing black as he lets go of Evan’s limp arm, “I have a much better present for you than a silly car ride.”


	4. Chapter 4

No sensation, no sound, no sight.  
  
Floating freeform – formless – the darkness lapping-licking pushing-pulling.  
  
Flowing – tipping – it’s an ocean: nothing-nothing reaching-racing–  
  
Theo’s eyes fly open as he gasps for breath, sound and sight and sensation rushing into him.  
  
“Well, well,” a lilting voice from his left, sounding oddly familiar yet not at all. There’s the brush of fingers along the side of his face, “Looks like this pretty pansy’s ready to see the light.”  
  
“Don’t you fucking touch him, bitch.”  
  
“Language, Deano.” A laugh, strangely girlish for such a deep voice, “But I always knew you weren’t one of those things that gets better with age.”  
  
Theo blinks blearily at the dark blob in front of him, each of his breaths coming in time with the incremental sharpening of his vision, and soon he can see that he’s looking at a murky pond. It’s only a few feet away from him, and when he tilts his head a little, he figures out that he’s sitting, leaning against a tree and he must still be on Dean’s property.  
  
Then he looks to his left, and things stop making sense.  
  
Sam’s tied unconscious to the tree next to him, head lolling against his chest and blood trickling down his temple.  
  
A few feet beyond that, right next to the pond, there’s a barren patch of land where Dean lies, spread-eagle within the outline of a dark circle.  
  
And right beside Theo – a tanned face and a tangle of curls.  
  
“Jake?”  
  
“Sorry, Jake can’t come to the phone right now,” Jake – not-Jake – grins broadly, his eyes impossibly dark – black – in the firelight cast by the torches ringing the clearing.  
  
“What does that mean?” Theo’s voice comes out too thin, but he can’t stop staring at the beetle black that somehow projects a feeling of amusement, like a twisted child stoning a dog, “Where – where’s Evan?”  
  
“Ah, don’t worry about the little punk,” the thing that’s not Jake says, “He’s finally gettin’ that sleep he’s been missing out on.”  
  
Theo’s eyes widen, “What – what did you do to him?”  
  
Not-Jake doesn’t answer, instead leaning close and pursing its lips, “Hmm, you were always kind of a wet towel, but at least before y’had a lil’ something-something.” The thing quirks a smile and reaches a hand out towards him, “Guess it was all in the mojo, but we’ll get to that soon enough.”  
  
Suddenly, there’s a furious roar from behind Not-Jake’s head, and both the thing and Theo’s eyes snap towards the source in time to see Dean lift one hand from the ground, the motion accompanied by a wet tearing sound – and that’s when Theo realizes that the reason Dean is spread-eagle is because he’s nailed in position.  
  
“Get the fuck away from him,” Dean snarls, bright eyes locked on Not-Jake. The gaping hole in his palm is seemingly beneath his notice and he flings his arm around, sending an arc of blood across the dirt as he reaches to pry the spike – the tent stake – out of his other hand.  
  
Not-Jake’s eyes widen briefly with shock, but Theo’s might be permanently fixed open now.  
  
The tops of the tent stakes are curved in a generous hook, and Dean seems intent on either pulling who knows how many inches of metal out of the ground or tearing his other hand apart in the process.  
  
Then Not-Jake is getting up from where he’d been knelt by Theo’s side and Theo tries to lunge forwards – to tackle the thing or trip it up – but he can’t move. He has no ropes tying him to the tree like Sam has, but he can’t move and he wants to scream because Not-Jake is walking so slowly, so casually towards Dean.  
  
Dean tries to punch Not-Jake when it crouches down next to him, but his hand can hardly form a fist and Theo has a feeling it wouldn’t have mattered if he could. The thing simply catches Dean’s hand mid-swing and pulls the spike Dean had escaped from – twelve bloody inches – out of the ground with unnatural ease.  
  
“Hold still ya moron,” Not-Jake frowns and stretches Dean’s arm out with a cruel grip. “If you wanted to be Jesus so bad, you should’ve told me earlier,” then the stake is coming down, and with a muffled smack, it’s sunk through Dean’s wrist and into the ground.  
  
Dean doesn’t scream, but he knocks his head back into the ground, eyes squeezed shut and lips curling to reveal red tinted teeth.  
  
“There we go,” Not-Jake smiles, giving Dean a pat on the cheek, “Happy, Deano?”  
  
“So happy,” Dean grits out, peeling open one shining eye, “How ‘bout I – I spread you some of… of that joy?”  
  
“That’s sweet, but I’ve always been a more…” Not-Jake pauses, scratching at its chin in mock contemplation before pulling something from its belt – another tent stake, “A more giving sort of gal.”  
  
Theo watches helplessly as Not-Jake stabs another stake through Dean’s arm next to the one that’s already there.  
  
Again, Dean doesn’t scream, but he must have nearly bitten through his tongue because there’s blood dripping from the corner of his mouth, trailing down his face and drawing the illusion of a knife wound through his cheek.  
  
“I’ve wanted to do this for  _so long_ ,” Not-Jake heaves a breath like a great burden’s been lifted from its shoulders, “But your damned wards–”  
  
“This isn’t… this isn’t a – a monologue, is it?” Dean pants out, somehow managing a mocking grin.  
  
“Well, why the hell not?” Not-Jake laughs, and another stake finds its way into Dean’s arm, sending Dean’s head snapping back into the dirt with a sharp crack, “You’re not going anywhere and I’ve been a little lonely the past few years.”  
  
Another stake, another toss of Dean’s head, “Sometimes I feel like the last demon on Earth–” stab of stake, spurt of blood, “And we were so damn  _close_  to it being the exact opposite.”  
  
Theo can’t find his voice and he’s not sure if it’s restrained like the rest of his body or if it’s simply bled out like Dean is bleeding out. He can’t understand how Dean is still conscious with the amount of blood he’s losing and the head trauma he must have by now and he prays the man will just pass out, pass out –  _oh God, just pass out._  
  
But Dean doesn’t and the thing –  _the demon_  – continues, “At least I had something to fill my time. Tracking you down and pinpointing your location wasn’t easy, though really I shoulda guessed.” The demon smiles down at Dean, sliding a hand delicately over the man’s chest, “Home is where the heart is, after all.”  
  
Theo’s afraid that the demon will put its hand right through Dean’s chest, and his throat feels raw like he’s swallowed the sun, but the demon doesn’t – and he doesn’t know if that’s good or not, because Dean’s still alive, but he’s  _still alive_.  
  
All it does is tear open the man’s shirt, revealing lines of silver-red spiralling across his skin and humming admiringly, “You’ve never been my favourite, Deano, but I’ve gotta admit – Alastair was right about you having talent. How long did it take ya to scribble these babies on?”  
  
Dean’s mangled hand twitches grotesquely, his arm pinned and distorted with a neat row of stakes spanning from his wrist to his shoulder, the once white and grey checker of his flannel now a deep, solid crimson. Yet somehow he still grunts out, “’Bout as… as long as it took t’… to pull the trigger an’ shoot your dad in the face.”  
  
The demon pulls a stake out from Dean’s arm, the abrupt motion drawing out his first whine of pain, a hoarse grating sound in the back of his throat that tears something apart inside Theo.  
  
“Leave him alone, bitch!” Theo cries, a voice – and it must be his though it doesn’t sound like it – ripping through him with such force he feels fire lance up his spine and settle in his shoulder blades, a pulsing ache.  
  
Theo thinks he might faint, something he’s never done before, and his vision is blurring to the point where Dean looks like little more than a red smear on the earth –  _Father, please don’t let this be_  – and his breath is caught, shaking somewhere along his ribs like a death rattle or a hurricane.  
  
It’s not until something hot and wet lands on his arm that he realizes he’s crying.  
  
The demon blinks blankly at him for a few seconds before a pointed smile spreads across its face, “Huh, so you’ve still got a little bark in ya. Not as refined as before,” it shrugs carelessly, “But hey, a yip is better than blip.”  
  
The demon moves back to Theo’s side and leans in close, hot breath tinged with sulphur blowing across his skin as it takes a finger – red with Dean’s blood – and paints it across Theo’s lips, “And it’s a good thing you reminded me to stay on task ‘cause I do still need him,” it chuckles darkly, resting its face in a cupped palm and regarding Theo with head crooked in false innocence, “You, though, I’m almost done with.”  
  
“What do you mean?” Theo’s face twists in hatred and fury and confusion. He wants to burn this  _abomination_  to ashes – wants to destroy it utterly in the most painful way fathomable – but he’s still held by invisible bonds, not for lack of trying, and his tears run like acid over his cheeks in a flow he can’t stop.  
  
“I’d thought it would be less fun, telling you this when you won’t even get half of what I’m saying, but...” the demon drags its bloody finger from Theo’s lips and through a tear track, then leans even closer to whisper for his ears only, “Even now when you don’t know a damn thing – you still love him.”  
  
The demon rolls back on its heels, laughing cruelly, “It’s really sickeningly cute, but I’m not complaining ‘cause otherwise, you wouldn’t have kept crawling back, time and time again, and none of this would’ve worked.”  
  
Theo’s gut roils like lava tumbling into the sea, and he wants the demon to shut up, but it keeps talking, “Who knew that you’d be such a bad boy with your wings clipped, but surely you wondered why someone tried stabbing you?”  
  
The demon arches a brow, but Theo doesn’t give a response and the thing isn’t looking for one, “And once you moved back to little Lawrence, why, it didn’t take much convincing to get you to drive that tractor right into old Planty’s shed. From there, things just rolled so smoothly on their own.” The demon beams with pride, “All I had to do was throw you some scraps and turn your head at  _ju-st_  the right time, and boom –” it wiggles its fingers before Theo’s eyes, “Sheds gone. Wards down–”  
  
“Shut up. Just shut up.”  
  
Theo startles at the sound of Dean’s voice, raspy and brittle as fall leaves underfoot. His eyes break away from the black stones that had been crushing him and fly towards the man.  
  
Dean’s beyond pale, the scars across his skin seeming to glow, a fine tremor running through him that sends ripples radiating through the red mirror he lies in. The earth seems to have rejected his blood, letting it pool and slowly fill the outline of the black circle that rings him.  
  
“What’s wrong, Deano?” the demon asks, “Don’t want him to hear how bad he’s hurt you?”  
  
Theo’s muscles burn with the effort he puts into trying to move or even speak – just wail nonsense to drown out the words he can see sinking into Dean like another set of stakes – but this time his vocal cords have definitely been bound and he can’t escape the arm that’s thrown across his shoulders.  
  
“Or maybe it’s  _you_  who doesn’t want to hear it?” the demon smirks, “I wonder how long you cried for when he left you – not even a goodbye – just up and left and  _died_.”  
  
Dean flinches, eyes rolling and mouth moving without voice, though Theo can read the mantra wishing death and silence on the demon.  
  
“But you just had to be your usual dramatic self and couldn’t be satisfied that the world was ‘saved’,” the last word rolling off its tongue with disdain, “You couldn’t get it through your thick skull that people will always leave, Dean, and they leave  _because of you_. Even after your touch literally became death, you couldn’t resist reaching out with your clingy paws, could you?”  
  
Blood – half clotted and tinged black – starts to dribble out from the corners of Dean’s mouth in thick and steady streams, the lines carved into his skin no longer glowing, instead darkening – squid ink and pitch.  
  
His eyes are glazed and he’s obviously no longer aware of his surroundings, but the demon walks over to Dean’s side, crouching down to brush a dirty hand over his forehead, “Oh Deano, and now I’ve got you and I know your boyfriend’s grace is in that nice tall tree right there.” It lays bloody palms against the edge of the now filled circle and coos into his ear, “You’ve made it way too easy for me to reopen Hell.”  
  
Then there’s a thump like a heart beat amplified to shake the ground and the mirror of red – all that blood – turns black as the lines scrawled into Dean’s skin.  
  
Theo doesn’t know what’s happening – stopped understanding an eternity ago – but the circle is no longer filled with fluid, if it’s filled with anything at all. No light reflects off its surface and the wind begins to howl like it’s being drawn into the void on which Dean floats, and then – and then–  
  
And then Dean begins to sink into the inky dark, the shadows lapping at his skin, staining him as if it’s liquid slowly drinking him down.  
  
And Theo is screaming – he’s certain he’s screaming – except his mouth is closed and he can’t hear over the wind or the preternatural thump that resonates through the earth – the shrill ring that resounds through his heart and bones and flesh and teeth. All he can taste is the iron bubbling up the back of his throat and the salt slipping past his lips.  
  
He would tear his body to shreds if it would mean the freedom to move, but all he can do – like all he’s done this entire night, his whole fucking life – is sit there and watch through blurred vision as his world spirals apart around him.  
  
He doesn’t even notice when the demon picks him up, dragging him to his feet by the neck and pushing his back up against the tree he’d been leaning on.  
  
“Now for the secret ingredient,” the demon grins, blocking Theo’s view of Dean – sliding slowly, slowly into the dark – with its hateful beetle eyes and drawing a long blade that might be made of stone, “You.”  
  
There’s a sharp wet smack, like an overripe fruit whipped against a wall; the muffled splintering of wood.  
  
Theo looks down to see the hilt of the demon’s blade protruding comically from his chest and he wonders if it’s one of those plastic children’s swords with the collapsing blade because he doesn’t feel a thing.  
  
The demon lets go of the blade, leaving it to pin Theo to the tree as it backs away, hesitating for a second like it’s expecting something more to happen before its expression straightens with confidence.  
  
‘That’s it?’ he wants to ask as the demon turns its attention to Sam – still unconscious – taking a cloth from its pocket to dab at the blood on Sam’s forehead like its shining an apple for its teacher.  
  
All this pain, all this suffering and heartbreak and unimaginable horror that he just saw Dean endure, and all he gets is a little knife in the chest?  
  
And apparently, that’s it, and distantly Theo knows he must be dying – sees the red at the peripheral of his vision, blooming at an alarming rate – but he can’t find Dean anywhere. All he sees is a black circle on a barren patch of earth.  
  
And he can’t find Dean.  
  
There’s something spiking through him – maybe the stab wound making itself known – but it’s unlike anything he’s ever felt.  
  
It curls over him, a wave of emotion that isn’t his – but it is his – too intense, too visceral and raw and foreign to be his –  _but it is_.  
  
It’s agony like he’s never known it – without fire, without heat, but burning all the same.  
  
It’s something that grips the core of him and squeezes like he’s been thrown to the bottom of the ocean, asphyxiating beneath the weight of a desperate ignorance that’s cracking apart, waiting to be filled – has been waiting-searching-reaching all his life.  
  
For all he doesn’t understand, some part of him knows something, and it tells him–  
  
He pulls the knife out of his chest with surprising ease.  
  
Lets it fall to the ground with a quiet thud.  
  
The demon looks up sharply, confusion and shock clear on its face, but he doesn’t give it time to react.  
  
He just steps forward and lets himself fall into the pond.  
  
Breaks the surface and tips beneath.  
  
He can’t feel anything but the cold bite of water.  
  
There’s no sound but the thick silence in his ears.  
  
It’s dark, murky, the mud and silt stirred into an envelope that blinds him.  
  
He floats, but he is not suspended and he is sinking ever deeper; impossibly deeper.  
  
Currents curl around him, the tiniest tug of push and pull wrapping about his limbs like hands and guiding him further-farther away from the world, towards some empty space.  
  
An ocean of nothing.  
  
Everything.  
  
He breathes in and doesn’t drown.  
  
Or if he drowns, he doesn’t know it, because whatever is sliding down his throat – filling his lungs, his stomach – isn’t water.  
  
It is thunder and lightning, the mist of clouds and crisp of hail. It is molten rock and compressed earth, the dust of Saturn’s rings and the bend of space and time. It is power, unfathomable in its breadth.  
  
And it is knowledge – memory.  
  
Identity.  
  
And with every drop he swallows – breathes – he knows–

  
The void.  
  


  
The light.  
  
  


  
  
His name.  
  
  


 

  
  
  
_Castiel_   
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

_Cas_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There is a prayer that needs an answer.

 

 

 

 

An unspoken plea – his own and another’s – and he has felt it echoing through him for seventeen years.

 

 

 

There is no sound, no sight, no sensation, but there is a feeling.

 

 

Like the warmth of sunlight, the ring of laughter and brush of breath, so close, so close.

 

And in this dark – this nothing space between worlds – it’s all he needs.

 

It’s all Castiel needs to find Dean.

 

So he grips him tight and raises him up out of the dark, the cold, the pain.

From the void, the water, the pond and forbidden circle, both, they fly.

He knows not how much time has passed – seconds, minutes, hours or forever – but the demon who calls itself Meg is still in the clearing and Castiel thinks it is a good position she is frozen in.

It is only fitting that she be on her knees as he purges her from the world.

She has no chance to escape, beetle black eyes round with terror. Castiel does not even bother laying a hand on her, not when his arms cradle Dean against his chest.

So with a thought and a glance, he burns her out. She has no time to draw breath and scream though he hears it in the combustion of her every particle before her host slumps to the ground, dead from nearly five months of abuse.

His broadened senses tell him that there are four children slowly bleeding on the corners of the property, but they are in no immediate danger.

He can hear the pound of footsteps at the main house as Chuck begins to panic at returning to find everyone missing.

Sam has stirred and is working at freeing his bonds, crying out at the sight that greets his waking eyes.

All this information is taken in like background noise when all he can see and feel and hear is Dean.

The man is at the edge of death, inky darkness clinging to his body like tar, the marks lining his skin distorted and dripping. What’s visible of him is pale as cloud or open red and weeping.

The flare of power in Castiel’s grace is temporary, but it is enough, so standing in the pond as he is, Castiel lowers Dean’s body into the pool of water. With gentle hands he washes away the liquid shadow that smears Dean’s skin; rubs away and erases the squid ink lines like they aren’t carved into flesh. His touch heals slowly, resets the bone that had been shattered under metal spikes and knits closed each hole in Dean, one by one.

And though Dean should be unconscious from his ordeal, bright green eyes open wide and wet, and fix unerringly on Castiel’s own.

“I’m sorry,” Dean rasps brokenly, stubbornly forcing his vocal cords to work.

Castiel’s brow furrows, “What is there to apologize for?”

“You’re an angel again.”

“I don’t see what’s wrong with that.”

Dean blinks rapidly, lips twisting and voice gathering strength from the flow of Castiel’s grace, “You’re going to be forever seventeen and you’re – you’re going to be stuck here.”

Castiel sweeps a thumb over the man’s forehead to wipe away a black smudge, “Dean–”

“Don’t tell me it’s not that bad,” Dean scowls, one hand reaching up to clutch at Castiel’s shoulder, “It’s worse than being a vampire – I mean, you don’t have to eat people, but Heaven’s not gonna take you back and – and nothing on Earth can kill you.”

Dean deflates in Castiel’s arms, head bowed and voice plaintive, “The world’s going to keep going, and you’ll just have to watch it go.”

There is anger in Castiel. A hot flame of it that burns just for Dean – like so many things – and he’s been keeping it in check since the moment it was lit, but he feels it flare now because of Dean’s insufferable reasoning. What the man says is true – that Castiel may well be doomed to an eternal existence wandering the Earth, but he needs the man to understand–

“Dean,” Castiel tips the man’s face up, holding him still so he can’t look away, “I would rather have what few years I can – with you – than a lifetime of safety and contentment.”

“Yeah, try saying that a decade from now – hell, maybe even next year.”

Castiel’s eyes narrow fiercely, “No, I won’t regret this. I could never have been happy as ‘Theo’.” He tightens his arms around Dean, enfolding the man with every stray wisp and every solid strand of his being. And his voice is his voice, but it doesn’t sound like his, too strained and too frail, “Don’t you know that all this time, I was searching for something I could not even name?”

“Cas–”

“And now that I have found you, and you have found me,” Castiel presses the words into Dean’s temple, “I am happy.”

Dean doesn’t say anything for a long while, nestled motionless in Castiel’s arms.

Then, soft like sunlight on his skin, “Me too.”


	5. Epilogue

“What the hell, Cas?”  
  
“Hello, Dean,” Castiel leans his bike against the porch before looking up at the source of the grumpy voice.  
  
Dean’s hair is mussed from sleep and his Led Zeppelin tee shirt is rumpled like he rolled out of bed seconds ago. He didn’t even bother pulling on a pair of jeans over his black boxer briefs despite the chill in the air and neither does he have on any sort of footwear, leaving his pale toes to wiggle sleepily on the worn wooden steps of his porch.  
  
The man blinks blearily at Castiel, “It’s the ass crack of dawn, what’re you doing here?”  
  
Castiel shakes his head, pointing his chin at the two mugs in Dean’s hands, “Why would you ask when you were clearly expecting me?”  
  
Dean ducks his head, taking a sip from his mug of black coffee and grudgingly thrusting out his other hand towards Castiel, the mug of hot chocolate steaming, no more than a few minutes old.  
  
Castiel accepts the proffered beverage gladly and lifts it to his lips before frowning. He lowers it, “Where is my marshmallow?”  
  
Dean shrugs, hiding a teasing grin against the rim of his mug, “Are you going to throw a tantrum?”  
  
“Perhaps,” Castiel marches up the porch steps, ignoring Dean’s snickers as the man practically skips along behind him, very much awake now and enjoying Castiel’s frustration.  
  
“Why didn’t you just beam into the kitchen?” Dean asks curiously as Castiel rummages through the cabinets for the bag of large marshmallows, “Or better yet, why’d you ride a bike instead of just beaming over here from your house?”  
  
“For the same reason you insist on hiding the marshmallows,” Castiel grunts as he reaches into the very back of a particularly deep cupboard, snaking his arm around towers of canned soup for the plastic bag he can just see, “Because I felt like it.”  
  
Dean hums with amusement and Castiel pauses in his search, “It is one of the things I grew to like as a human.”  
  
“You were only biking like this for a couple weeks.”  
  
“Yes, but I learned to enjoy the anticipation of reaching my goal,” Castiel finally hooks the bag of marshmallows with his fingertips, “And isn’t it good to ‘take the scenic route’?”  
  
Dean chuckles, taking another long drink from his mug, “’Cause the scenery around here is just that pretty.”  
  
Castiel drops the bag of marshmallows on the counter and lets his eyes trail over the unmarked expanse of Dean’s skin, “Yes. The view is very nice.”  
  
Dean chokes on his coffee, and he wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand, “Jesus, don’t say things like that!”  
  
“Why not?” Castiel cocks his head, “It’s the truth.”  
  
“Sure, but–” Dean’s cheeks heat up tomato red. He sets his mug on the kitchen counter and scrubs a hand over his face in embarrassment as he groans, “I feel like a goddamned cradle robber.”  
  
“Good,” Castiel smiles as he takes out a single marshmallow and splits it nearly in half, “The feeling is mutual.”  
  
“Ha ha, Cas,” Dean says sarcastically though his eyes crinkle brightly. “At least you don’t look like a dirty old man.”  
  
“You don’t look like a dirty old man.”  
  
“C’mon, physically I’m about thirty years older than you,” Dean’s eyes dim as he scratches at his stubbled cheek.  
  
Castiel fixes his marshmallow on the rim of his cup but doesn’t yet take a drink. Instead he turns to step into Dean’s space, eyes locking with surprised green, “I don’t care about your age, Dean. Never have I looked at you and seen less than the good man you are. Even when I was... not myself, I could not believe the awful rumours about you.”  
  
Dean chews at his lip, eyes darting away, “Cas, I...”  
  
“I will always love you, Dean Winchester; no matter the tolls of old age. Your wrinkles will only endear you to me, your thinning hair will be like spun silver in my eyes. Your incontinence–”  
  
“Okay, okay. Stop,” Dean presses a palm hastily over Castiel’s mouth, expression mildly horrified “Don’t ever do that again. No ‘I’ll number your liver spots’ or ‘I’ll swoon for your cataracts’, we clear?”  
  
Castiel huffs a laugh and brings Dean’s hand away from his mouth, glad to see that Dean is forgetting his fear of touch. He cups a hand to the back of Dean’s neck, thumb stroking away the man’s tension and fingers spread alongside the grey streaks in his hair, “As long as you remember what I’ve told you.”  
  
“And if I forget?”  
  
“I don’t believe either of us could ever truly forget,” Castiel says, and he sees that Dean believes it too.  
  
Castiel leans in, pushing Dean back against the counter. He tugs at Dean’s hair, angling the man’s head as his eyes drift shut and the space between them slowly clos–  
  
The toaster pops.  
  
Dean’s arm jerks into his mug of coffee in surprise, his elbow wedging neatly into the cup. The man curses as the – fortunately – lukewarm beverage splashes over his shirt.  
  
Castiel doesn’t flinch, though his eyes open to the clock on the wall and he sees that if he wishes to be punctual, he will have to depart shortly.  
  
Dean also notices the time, cursing again as he leans back to grab a cloth from the kitchen backsplash, “Freaking school. Are you sure you don’t want to just teleport there, or, y’know, skip it?”  
  
Castiel takes a large gulp from his mug of cocoa, “A ceremony is being held today in remembrance of Jake Martin.”  
  
“Oh,” Dean pauses in his wipe down of the countertop, “The other kids... how’re they?”  
  
“The existence of demons and such wasn’t very difficult for them to absorb given what they saw, and the trauma will take some time to overcome, but I believe they will be alright.”  
  
“That’s good,” Dean sighs, slapping the wet cloth onto the counter as Castiel finishes up his hot chocolate, “I guess the only mess left to deal with is your parents.”  
  
“I think Chuck has been prepared for this outcome since I was born,” Castiel shakes his head, “And though I am an angel of the Lord, Chuck is no less my father and I no less his son.”  
  
Dean rolls his eyes, “Okay, good for you, but it’s so damn awkward with him now for exactly the reason you said. You’re his son and I’m – and he’s – oh god,” Dean throws an arm through the air, “I don’t even want to imagine ever telling your mom about this, I mean, the age difference and the – she doesn’t even know about ghosts!”  
  
“Yes, but we will have to discuss this further at a later time. I do not want to be tardy,” Castiel sets his empty mug on the table and pops the half melted marshmallow in his mouth as he turns to exit the kitchen  
  
“Fine then, you little nerd,” Dean calls over his shoulder, “Bye, Cas.”  
  
Castiel sighs as he heads for the front door and his bike. There are so many matters to deal with besides the revelation to his mother of both Castiel – the angel – and his relationship with Dean.  
  
There are worldly concerns like the few demons that remain on Earth. The only method hunters have left to use against them is trapping – a temporary solution. With Castiel here, he could help finally clear the remains of the Final Battle, but that could mean leaving Dean or putting him in danger – neither of which Castiel wants.  
  
There are dates he wants to go on with Dean – outside – in the world the man has been sealed off from for so long. With the curse washed from his skin, Castiel wants Dean to be unafraid when people step within a foot of his space and he wants Dean to reach out more often. And there is so much to talk about – seventeen long years worth of events to share – and so much left unsaid from Before and After that he and Dean both dread and long to hear.  
  
There is the matter of his inability to age. With Dean and his connections, learning to create new identities should be no problem and Castiel has no qualms about moving frequently to avoid suspicion, but on that inevitable day when Dean...  
  
“Cas!”  
  
Castiel’s gaze snaps up from his bike to find Dean standing with bare toes curling in the dirt, just a few steps away from him.  
  
Dean’s frowning at him, hand wavering tentatively in the space between them and eyes more open than he means to be, “God, you’d think that seventeen years would be enough to teach you human customs.”  
  
Castiel smiles, the crease disappearing from between his brows.  
  
For all the uncertainties that lie before him and all the miles he will have to travel, there is some part of him that knows one thing, and it tells him–  
  
“It should be obvious by now, Dean,” Castiel closes the distance between them, letting their fingers twine. “It’s never really goodbye.”


End file.
